IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


k 


// 


^/ 


A 


,.* 


<lt 


'^ 


f/. 


V 


11.25 


IM    115 


lis 


li 


^  ^ 


12.2 


^  1^    12.0 


■lUU 


Hiotographic 

^Sciences 

Corporalion 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WCBSTER.N.Y.  14580 

(716)  S73-4S03 


\ 


■1? 


\\ 


^/^ 
? 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/JCIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  institut  canaoien  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Tvchnical  and  Bibliographic  Notaa/Notas  tachniquaa  at  bibliographiquaa 


Tha 
toth 


Tha  Inatituta  haa  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
original  copy  availabia  for  filming.  Faaturaa  of  thia 
copy  which  may  ba  bibliographicaily  uniqua, 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagaa  In  tha 
raproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  changa 
tha  uaual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chackad  balow. 


D 


Colourod  covara/ 
Couvartura  da  couiaur 


I     I    Covara  damagod/ 


D 


n 

D 
D 

a 
n 


Couvartura  andommagia 


Covars  rastorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Couvartura  raataurte  at/ou  palliculte 


r~n    Covar  titia  missing/ 


D 


La  titra  da  cou««ortura  manqua 


Colourad  mapa/ 

Cartas  gtegraphiquaa  wn  couiaur 


Coloured  ink  (i.a.  othar  than  blua  or  black)/ 
Encra  da  couiaur  (i.a.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


Coloured  platea  nnd/or  illuatrationa/ 
Planches  at/ou  illuatrationa  en  couleur 


Bound  with  other  metarial/ 
Reli*  avac  d'autree  document* 


Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  mergin/ 

La  re  liure  serrie  peut  cauaer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge  intArieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restomtion  may 
appear  within  tha  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
11  se  peut  que  certainaa  pagea  blanchaa  ajoutiea 
lore  d'une  reatauration  apparaissant  dana  le  texte, 
meia.  lorsque  cela  Atait  poaaibie.  ces  pagea  n'ont 
paa  *ti  filniiaa. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commantairas  supplAmentairas; 


L'Instltut  a  microfilm*  la  meilleur  axamplaira 
qu'il  lui  a  iti  possible  de  se  procurer.  Las  details 
de  cet  axamplaira  qui  sont  peut-4tre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique.  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dana  la  mithode  normele  de  filmaga 
sont  indiqute  ci-deaaous. 


r~1   Coloured  pegea/ 


D 


Pagee  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pagea  endommegies 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pagea  reataurias  at/ou  pelliculies 

Pagea  discoloured,  stained  or  foxei 
Pages  dicoiorAes,  tacheties  ou  piqudes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ditachies 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quelity  of  prin 

Qualiti  inigaia  de  I'impression 

includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  metiriel  suppiimentaira 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Mition  disponible 


|~~|  Pages  damaged/ 

r — I  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

r~T|  Pagea  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

nn  Pages  detached/ 

[~T]  Showthrough/ 

[~n  Quelity  of  print  veries/ 

r~~|  includes  supplementary  materiel/ 

nn  Only  edition  available/ 


The 
poaa 
of  th 
filmi 


Grig 

begi( 

the 

sion, 

othe 

first 

sion, 

or  ill 


The  I 
shall 
TINL 
whic 

Mapi 
diffei 
entln 
b^gir 
right 
requi 
meth 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmad  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Lea  peges  totalement  ou  partieilement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure. 
etc..  ont  iti  film^s  A  nouveau  de  facon  i 
obtenir  la  meilleure  imege  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Co  docurhent  est  film*  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu*  ci-desaous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

y 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


2BX 


32X 


Th«  copy  filmad  Imp*  has  b««n  reproduced  thank* 
to  th*  g*n*ro*ity  of: 

HwoM  CampMI  Vaughan  Mamorial  Libnry 
Acadia  Univanity 

Th*  imag**  app**ring  h*r*  ar*  th*  b**.  quality 
possibi*  consid*ring  th*  condition  and  lagibility 
of  th*  original  copy  and  in  k**ping  with  th* 
filming  contract  spacifications. 


Original  copi**  in  print*d  papar  i:ov*r*  ar*  film*d 
b*ginning  with  th*  front  covor  And  *nding  on 
th*  last  pag*  with  a  printed  w  iliustratad  impras- 
sion,  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  pa^e  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — »•  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  Y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


1  2  3 


L'execjiplaire  film*  fut  reproduit  grice  i  la 
g4n4roslt4  de: 

Harold  Campball  Vau^ian  Manwrial  Library 
Acadia  Univanity 

Lee  imag  >s  suK/antes  ont  4ti  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  nettet*  de  rexemplaire  film*,  et  en 
conformity  evec  les  conditions  du  contrat  d* 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couvertur*  *n 
iMpl*r  **t  imprim4e  sent  fllmfo  en  commen^ant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  torminant  srit  par  la 
dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impresslon  ou  d'lllustration,  eoit  par  le  a*oond 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  lee  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmto  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impreeeion  ou  d'lllustration  et  en  termlnant  par 
la  derni^re  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  de*  symboles  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
derniAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ►  signlfle  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbols  Y  signlfle  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
filmds  A  dee  taux  de  reduction  diffArents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  il  est  film*  i  partir 
de  I'angle  sup4rleur  gauche,  de  gauche  i  drolte, 
et  de  heut  en  has,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cesealra.  Lee  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

* 

''M- 


"f ' 


■\ 


^t 


^> 


n 


MYSTERIOUS         WORDS. 


Pnet  JS. 


1,    *> 


HELEN  AS 
HOUSEHOLD. 


vlnji 


^— 


^  ®iik  of  Hatn^ 


zw 


THE    FIRST    CENTURY, 


<*- , 


Ionian: 

T.   NELSON  AND  SONS,    PATERNOSTER   ROW 

EDINBURGH;    AND  NEW  YORK. 


•H« 


('"• 


€o  t^e 


REV.    JOHN     PRYOR,     D.D., 


THIS   BOOK 


IS  RESPECTFULLY  INSCKIBKD. 


*f*f 


t* 


-^^^r^ 


-%t: 


Contents. 


I.  THE  JEW  WHO  HA  0  APPEALED  UNTO  Ci^tSAR, 
II.    THE  YOUNG  ATHENIAN, 

III.  ISAAC, 

IV.  THE  BOY  AND  HIS  NURSE, 
V.   THE  MINISTER  OF  C  ■^«\R, 

VI.   THE  OFFICER  WHO  SAILED  WITH  PAUL, 
Vn.   THE  SYRIAN  LEARNS  A  LESSON, 
VIII.    "THE  MASTER," 
IX.  THE  RETURN, 
X.   THE  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS, 
XL   THE  STEWV»RD  PUNISHED, 
XIL   THE  AMP'.IITHEATRE, 
XIIL   CINEAS  AND  HELENA, 
XIV.  THE  COURT  OF  NERO, 
XV.  THE  CENTURION, 
XVL   A  CHRISTIAN  MEETING, 
XVir.  THE  END  OF  PROPHECY, 
XVIIL   THE  BRITO", 
XIX.    AT  COURT,    ... 

XX.  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON, 
XXL  THE  RESOLVE, 
XXn.    SON  AND  FATHER, 
XXIIL    THE  BURNING  OF  ROME, 


4 

w 

S4 

66 

8a 
89 
97 
108 
M3 
138 
S43 
iS3 
S«» 
175 
185 
189 

199 
905 

an 
aag 

aiS 

aaS 


I 


Ha                                          CONTENTS. 

XXIV.  THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION,      ... 

Vio 

XXV.   THE  CONSPIRACY,    ... 

a84 

XXVI.    THE  ARREST, 

299 

XXVII.   THE  AVENGER, 

303 

XXVIII.    FREEDOM, 

3«5 

XXIX.  CHANGES, 

3«5 

XXX.   THE  CHIEF  MARTYR, 

.1W 

XXXI.    BEREAVEMENTS,       ... 

339 

XXXII.  OFF  TO  THE  WARS, 

350 

XXXIII.    NERO  IN  GREECE,    ... 

338 

XXXIV.    THE  END  OF  NERO, 

365 

XXXV.  JUDEA,       ... 

373 

XXXVI.   JOTAPATA, 

...          380 

XXXVII.   THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW, 

387 

XXXVIII.  THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM,      .. 

399 

XXXIX.  CONCLUSION, 

4»« 

V. 


f 


r': 


HELENA'S    HOUSEHOLD. 


I. 


Cfee  |tto  tofeo  feab  ^pptaleb  mio  Casar. 

fOME, — in  the  year  of  the  city,  814;  in  the  year  of 
grace,  61 ;  Nero  on  the  throne;  the  apostles  preach- 
ing Christianity;  the  ancient  world  in  the  period  of 
its  highest  civilization,  when  petty  divisions  had 
become  extinguished,  and  all  the  nations  bowed  to  the  one 
central  city; — such  is  the  time  of  this  story. 

It  was  a  busy,  a  rich,  and  a  densely-peopled  world.  Mili- 
tary roads  started  from  the  great  centre,  and  went  to  the  utter 
most  bounds  of  the  empire.  The  Mediterranean  was  the  high 
way  of  nations;  surrounded  by  a  girdle  of  populous  cities; 
everywhere  traversed  by  vast  fleets,  and  filled  with  the  com- 
merce of  the  world. 

Roman  law  had  fashioned  all  the  provinces  into  one  form, 
and  stamped  them  all  with  one  image ;  and  those  states  which 
were  formerly  ravaged  by  war  or  piracy,  now,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  universal  peace,  grew  with  a  rapidity  that  had  not  been 
known  before. 

Taking  a  comprehensive  view  of  this  world,  Spain  first 
attracts  our  attention,  where  for  some  time  a  Roman  province 


A 


*if. 


Uti 


hi* 


10 


THE  JEW  WHO  HAD 


had  been  advancing  so  peacefully,  that  history  finds  but  little 
to  record.  Culture  was  there,  and  Rome  was  receiving  from 
that  quarter  her  Lucans,  Senecas,  and  Trajans.  Cities  lined 
the  coast,  prominent  among  which  was  Gades,  which  yet,  as  of 
old,  sends  over  the  world  its  exports  of  fruit,  and  wine,  and  oil. 
Perhaps  Spain  was  more  prosperous  than  now.  Certainly 
Africa  was  much  more  so.  Along  the  whole  northern  coast 
there  was  a  line  of  nations,  rich  in  culture  and  prosperity,  pos- 
sessing great  cities,  which  sent  over  to  Rome  its  chief  supplies 
of  grain.  Carthage  had  arisen  from  its  ruins  on  a  new  site, 
and  many  capitals  had  grown  up  in  places  which  not  long 
before  had  been  the  battle-grounds  of  barbarous  tribes.  Alex- 
andria had  already  reached  a  lofty  position  in  science  and  lite- 
rature, as  well  as  in  commerce,  and  was  yet  advancing  still 
higher.  Over  all  the  country  caravans  pierced  the  desert, 
carrying  civilization  to  the  savages  beyond,  and  the  whole  land 
was  going  on  in  a  career  of  prosperity,  which  continued  for 
generations  with  various  fortunes,  till  it  was  checked  by  the 
disasters  of  the  falling  empire,  and  afterwards  diverted  in  a  new 
direction  by  Mohammedan  conquest. 

From  Alexandria  came  the  largest  ships  and  greatest  fleets; 
for  Roman  pride  was  yet  conveying  to  the  metropolis  those 
enormous  Egyptian  obelisks  which  yet  remain  in  the  modem 
city;  and  no  small  part  of  Eastern  commerce  came  up  the  Red 
Sea,  to  send  through  this  port  the  spices,  the  gold,  the  gems, 
the  silks,  and  the  rich  tissues  which  were  demanded  by  Roman 
luxury. 

Nor  must  we  forget  Palestine.  Long  since  Hellenized  to 
some  extent,  and  now  partly  Romanized,  the  people  saw  their 
country  filled  with  the  symbols  of  Western  art  and  science; 
but,  in  the  presence  of  Greek  rhetoricians  and  Roman  soldiers, 
they  cherished  that  fierce  fanaticism  which  blazed  up  in  revolt 
at  last,  and  was  quenched  in  the  untold  agonies  of  the  memo- 
rable siege  of  Jerusalem, 


APPEALED  UNTO  CyESAH. 


n 


Beyond  Palestine  were  the  crowded  regions  of  Syria  and 
Asia  Minor,  where  there  were  cities  such  as  Ephesus,  Antioch, 
Smyrna,  and  Damascus,  with  many  others,  which  surpassed  the 
capital  itself  in  splendour  and  magnificence,  and  have  left  ruins 
which  are  the  wonder  of  the  modem  traveller.  Through  these 
came  that  great  over^.  d  traffic  with  the  furthest  East,  which 
formed  a  perpetual  succession  of  caravans  between  the  Roman 
and  the  Chinese  provinces. 

What  lay  beyond  the  nearest  deserts  crossed  by  the  caravans 
was  a  profound  mystery  to  the  Romans.  Their  arms  had  never 
reduced  Persia  to  subjection ;  nor  had  a  Roman  general  ever 
gazed  on  the  plains  of  Scinde,  or  embarked  his  legions  on  the 
Persian  Gulf.  The  Parthians  were  more  formidable  to  the 
Romans  than  the  Persians  had  been  to  the  Greeks;  nor  did 
the  Latin  historian  ever  forgive  Alexander  for  leading  his  armies 
beyond  the  flight  of  the  Roman  eagles. 

The  descendants  of  those  Greeks  who  had  thus  outdone  the 
Romans  in  the  furthest  East,  still  lived  with  a  certain  vitality 
in  their  old  home.  Athens  was  more  populous  than  ever,  and 
the  country  was  prosperous.  But  the  glory  had  departed,  and 
the  ancient  genius  had  vanished  for  ever.  It  would  be  a  great 
mistake,  however,  to  suppose  that  the  Greeks  had  sunk  to  a 
level  with  the  other  races  under  the  iron  dominion  of  Rome; 
on  the  contrary,  they  towered  above  them  all. 

The  position  of  the  Greeks  at  this  time  is  partly  instructive 
and  partly  amusing.  They  were  at  once  the  scholars,  the  wits, 
and  the  sharpers  of  the  day.  Their  literature  was  studied 
everywhere ;  their  arts  were  everywhere  admired.  No  one  who 
pretended  to  be  anybody  was  ignorant  of  their  language.  It 
was  the  universal  tongue,  and  had  penetrated  into  !'  countries. 
Everything  that  required  art,  skill,  ingenuity,  all  the  finer  em- 
ployments of  every  kind,  had  everywhere  fallen  to  the  lot  of 
the  Greeks.  They  were  the  best  painters,  sculptors,  architects, 
and  musicians.     The  master-pieces  of  art  now  preserved   at 


.  *l 


13 


THE  JEW  WHO  HAD 


Rome,  if  they  bear  any  names  at  all,  have  those  of  Greek 
artists.  Wealthy  Romans  sent  their  sons  to  Athens  to  acquire 
a  liberal  education,  or  hired  Greek  tutors  in  their  owii  houses 
at  Rome.  In  Js^ome  the  Greek  was  everything.  In  the  words 
of  the  sneering  satirist, — 

"  Grammar,  survftying,  physic,  shaving,  art. 
Rope-dancing,  magic, — all,  he  knows  by  heart" 

Northward,  ♦;he  barbarian  races  were  held  in  check,  yet  chafed 
furiously  against  the  barrier.  The  Fannonians  and  Dacians 
were  watching  their  opportunity.  The  Germans  refused  to  be 
conquered.  Beyor  d  them  lay  the  innumerable  Goths,  behind 
whom  were  the  Strmatians  and  Scythians,  who  again  were 
pressed  in  their  rear  by  others.  Among  these  tribes  the  Romans 
found  a  spirit  which  no  longer  existed  among  themselves. 

Gaul  had  settled  down  into  an  orderly  Roman  province, 
with  all  the  customary  sfgns  of  Roman  refinement.  The 
southern  coast  had  been  a  civilized  country  for  ages;  and 
Massilia,  which  was  founded  by  the  Greeks  centurieu  before, 
was  distinguished  for  its  culture;  while  in  its  neighbourhood 
were  powerful  cities  which  have  bequeathed  to  our  times  vast 
monuments  and  majestic  ruins. 

Beyond  the  sea  lay  Britain,  now  filled  with  war  and  carnage. 
For  this  was  the  year  of  the  vengeance  of  Boadicea,  when  Sue- 
tonius had  marched  against  the  Druids,  leaving  the  island  in 
his  rear  unprotected.  Then  the  British  queen  had  gone  with 
her  daughters  among  the  tribes,  rousing  them  to  revenge.  The 
country  fell  back  into  their  power.  Suetonius  was  lost  to  view; 
and  the  Roman,  looking  toward  Britain,  saw  everything  hidden 
from  view  by  the  smoke  of  burning  cities. 

And  what  wa"?  Italy  itself,  the  centre  of  this  ancient  world  1 
A  vast  community  of  cities,  a  network  of  magnificent  roads;  its 
land  cultivated  like  a  garden,  and  teeming  with  population.  In 
the  north  were  the  fertile  plains  at  the  foot  of  the  Alps,  with 
many  stately  and  populous  cities.     Next  came  Etruria,  where 


/ 


APPEALED  UNTO  C^SAR. 


n 


the  olive  and  the  vine  grew  over  all  the  hill-slopes  and  throughout 
the  quiet  valleys.     Campania  was  then  filled  with  inhabitants; 
the  Pontine  marshes  were  drained  and  cultivated ;  and  the  most 
beautiful  part  of  all  the  world  was  found  then,  as  now,  in  Naples 
Bay,  where  Roman  luxury  had  exhausted  all  its  resources  in 
contriving  new  sources  of  delight  and  new  modes  of  enjoyment. 
Where  shall  we  begin  %    Shall  it  be  with  Paestum,  where  in 
this  age  those  five  temples  were  standing,  admired  already  as 
types  of  hoar  antiquity,  but  destined  to  a  still  more  venerable 
age,  since  they  have  come  do>vn  to  our  day  in  wonderful  pre- 
servation ;  or  Sorrentum,  with  its  wonderful  valley,  where  there 
is  perpetual  spring  throughout  the  year;  or  Capreae,  where 
Tiberius  was  wont  to  retire  and  devise,  in  hideous  secrecy,  new 
refinements  of  cruelty;  or  Pompeii  and  Herculaneum,  which 
the  awful  fires  of  Vesuvius  were  soon  to  overwhelm  and  bury 
from  the  sight  of  man,  so  that  they  might  lie  hidden  through 
the  centuries,  and  be  exhumed  in  our  day  to  portray  to  us  the 
corrupt  form  of  ancient  civilisation  as  it  appears  in  their  melan- 
choly streets  1    Or  shall  r/e  turn  to  Baise,  where  for  generations 
there  assembled  all  that  Rome  possessed  of  genius,  of  wealth, 
of  valour,  of  luxury,  of  effeminacy,  and  of  vic^  to  present  a 
strange  mixture  of  sensuality  and  intellect,  of  taste  and  corrup- 
tion ;  where  the  massive  piles  even  now  remain  which  Caligula 
reared  from  the  depths  of  the  sea,  so  that  he  might  avoid  the 
curve  of  the  shore,  and  have  a  straight  path  in  defiance  of  the 
obstacles  of  the  ocean ;  to  Misenum,  with  the  Roman  navy  at 
anchor,  and  triremes  passing  and  repassing  at  all  times;  to  the 
Lucrine  lake,  and  the  Elysian  fields,  and  the  Cumaean  grotto, 
through  which  Virgil  makes  his  hero  pass  to  the  under  world ; 
or  to  that  steep  cliff  overhanging  the  Grotto  of  Posilipo,  which 
the  same  poet  chose  for  his  burial-place,  of  whom  the  well- 
known  epitaph  gives  the  biography, — 

"  I  sing  flocks,  tillage,  heroes.     Mantua  gave 
Me  life ;  Brundusium  death ;  Naples  a  grave  t " 


\ 


A 


1-1  THE  JEW  WHO  HAD 

Or  will  our  Christian  instincts  lead  us  to  turn  away  from  these 
to  Puteoli,  to  see  the  landing  of  Saint  Paul,  and  follow  his 
steps  to  the  foot  of  Caesar's  throne  ?  ,      ^^ 


It  was  drawing  near  to  the  close  of  a  day  in  early  spring, 
when  a  numerous  party  rode  on  towards  Rome  from  the  direc- 
tion of  Naples.  First  came  a  detachment  of  soldiers,  at  whose 
head  was  the  decurion ;  and  immediately  following  them  was  a 
centurion,  by  vhose  side  rode  two  men.  The  rest  of  the  party 
were  civilians;  some  being  Roman  citizens,  others  foreigners; 
some  of  high  7ank,  others  of  humble  circumstances.  They  all 
rode  on  cheerfully,  with  animated  conversation,  smiles,  and 
frequent  laughter.  On  the  whole,  however,  their  character  and 
expression  appeared  rather  sedate  than  otherwise,  and  it  was 
the  excitement  of  the  occasion  which  led  to  their  mirthfulness. 

The  two  men  who  rode  next  to  the  centurion  were  of  dif- 
fdirent  race  and  more  impressive  aspect.  Their  faces  and  dress 
showed  that  they  were  Jews.  The  cen*^urion  treated  them 
with  the  utmost  respect.  The  one  who  rode  nearest  to  him 
had  an  intellectual  face,  and  clear,  inquiring  eye.  His  eager 
glance  fixed  itself  on  every  new  object  which  it  encountered  on 
the  way,  and  he  asked  numerous  questions,  which  the  officer 
politely  answered.  The  other  traveller  was  of  different  appear- 
ance. His  size  was  under  the  average ;  his  hair  was  short  and 
crisp;  his  face  bronzed  by  exposure;  his  forehead  broad  and 
expansive,  yet  not  very  high ;  his  lips  thin ;  his  mouth  closely 
shut  and  slightly  drooping  at  the  corners;  his  jaw  square  and 
ir.assive,  and  covered  with  a  heavy  beard;  his  eyes  gray  and 
wonderfully  piercing.  He  rode  on,  looking  fixedly  at  the  city, 
now  in  full  view,  and  appearing  to  notice  little  of  what  WaS 
going  on  around  him.  It  was  a  face  which  one  would  look  at 
a  secoi:d  time — a  bold,  massive,  mighty  face,  with  restless 
energy,  fire,  and  power  stamped  upon  every  Hneament,  and  yet 
wearing  over  all  a  strange  serenity.     In  the  wrinkles  of  his 


APPEALED  UNTO  C^SAR. 


»5 


brow,  and  the  lines  of  his  face,  was  graven  the  record  of  long 
strugg.es  and  arduous  toil;  and  yet  even  the  most  careless 
observer  could  see  that  this  man  had  come  forth  out  of  all  his 
troubles  more  than  conqueror. 

Such  was  Paul,  the  apostle.  His  companion  was  Luke,  the 
beloved  physician.  The  officer  was  Julius,  the  centurion.  The 
friends  were  the  Christians  of  Rome,  who  had  come  out  to  meet 
the  apostle  as  far  as  Tres  Tabemse  and  Forum  Appii,  at  the 
reception  of  whose  warm  welcome  the  two  friends  "  thanked 
God  and  took  courage." 

And  now  from  afar  there  came  the  deep  hum  of  the  city,  the 
tread  of  its  millions,  and  the  roll  of  wheels  over  the  stony 
streets.  The  lofty  many-storied  houses  rose  high,  and  above 
them  rose  temples  and  towers  and  monuments.  In  the  midst 
was  the  vast  outline  of  the  imperial  palace  ;  and  high  above  all, 
the  Capitoline  Hill,  with  ita  coronet  of  temples. 

The  crowd  along  the  streets  increased  at  every  pace  as  they 
drew  nearer,  until  at  length  they  were  compelled  to  move  more 
slowly.  The  highway  became  less  a  road  than  a  street ;  houses 
were  p.U  around,  and  it  was  difficult  to  tell  where  the  country 
began  and  where  the  city  ended ;  for  the  overgrown  metropolis 
had  burst  beyond  its  walls,  and  sent  its  miles  of  suburbs  far  out 
into  the  plain.  The  road,  at  every  step,  became  more  thronged, 
until  at  last  it  was  filled  to  overflowing.  Here  came  chariots  of 
nobles  on  their  way  to  distant  villas ;  there  rolled  along  pon- 
derous carts  laden  with  stone  for  building  purposes ;  from  one 
direction  came  a  band  of  soldiers,  from  another  a  gang  of 
slaves.  Here  came  a  drove  of  oxen,  stately,  long-horned, 
cream-coloured — always  the  boast  of  Italy — and  close  behind 
followed  a  crowd  of  shepherds  or  drovers.  Still  the  crowd  in- 
creased :  asses  with  panniers  j  mules  with  burdens ;  fossors  with 
loads  of  sand  from  the  catacombs ;  imperial  couriers ;  gangs  of 
prisoners  i:i  chains ;  beggars  displaying  loathsome  sores ;  priests 
on  their  way  to  the  temples ;  water-carriers ;  wine-sellers ;  all 


I  \ 


JH 


i6 


TJ/E  yEiV  WffO  HAD 


the  arts,  and  all  the  trades ; — such  was  the  motley  crowd  that 
now  roared  around  them  while  yet  they  were  outside  the  gates. 

Now  the  road  was  lined  on  each  side  with  tombs,  among 
which  they  passed  the  enormous  round  tower  of  Csecilia 
Metella,  a  sepulchre,  like  the  Egyptian  pyramids,  built  for 
f.temity.  From  this  spot  there  extended  a  long  line  of  tombs, 
containing  the  noblest  dead  of  Rome.  Our  party  went  on  and 
drew  nearer.  They  passed  the  Grotto  of  Egeria,  with  a  grove 
around  it,  which  was  hired  out  to  the  Jews.  They  passed  the 
place  on  which  tradition  says  that  Hannibal  stood  and  hurled 
his  dart  over  the  walls,  and  came  near  to  the  Porta  Capena, 
where  one  of  the  aqueducts  ran  right  over  the  top  of  the  gate. 

What  thoughts  were  these  which  so  absorbed  the  mind  of  the 
great  apostle,  that  he  seemed  to  notice  nothing  around  him 
Was  it  the  magnitude  an(f  splendour  of  the  capital ;  or  rather 
the  vast  power  of  that  heathenism  with  which  he  was  making 
war?  '^ 

What  that  society  was  into  which  he  was  carrying  the  gospel 
of  the  Saviour,  he  knew  well ;  and  we,  too,  may  know,  if  we 
regard  the  pictures  which  are  presented  to  us  by  men  who 
wrote  not  many  years  after  this  reign  of  Nero.  There  is  the 
greatest  of  Roman  historians,  and  the  mightiest  of  satirists. 
Each  has  left  his  record.  Were  that  record  single,  we  might 
think  it  exaggerated;  but  each  is  supported  by  the  other. 
Were  Juvenal  only  before  us,  we  might  think  his  statements  the 
extravagance  of  a  poet  or  a  satirist ;  but  all  that  Juvenal  affirms 
is  supported  and  strengthened  by  the  terrible  calmness  of 
Tacitus;  in  whom  there  is  no  trace  of  passion,  but  the  im- 
partial description  of  hideous  reigns,  drawn  up  by  one  whose 
own  heart  that  age  had  filled  with  bitterness. 

What,  then,  is  the  picture  which  we  find  in  these  pages  1 

The  simple  virtues  of  the  old  republic  had  long  since  passed 
away.  Freedom  had  taken  her  eternal  flight.  The  people 
were  debased,  and  looked  on  in  silence  at  the  perpetration  of 

(18S) 


ih 


APPEALED  UNTO  Cj^SAR. 


17 


enormous  crimes.  After  Nero's  dealings  with  his  mother,  he 
could  still  be  emperor.  The  name  of  religion  was  applied  to  a 
system  corrupt  to  the  inmost  centre.  No  one  believed  in  it 
who  had  any  pretence  to  intelligence.  Public  honour  and 
justice  were  almost  unknown ;  and  conquered  provinces  were 
only  regarded  as  victims  of  oppression.  Private  virtues  had 
almost  vanished ;  and  honour  and  truth  and  mercy  were  little 
more  than  empty  sounds.  Decency  itself  had  departed ;  and 
vices  which  cannot  be  named  in  our  day  were  freely  practised, 
unchecked  by  public  opinion.  It  was  a  society  where  vice  had 
penetrated  to  the  heart  of  almost  every  household.  That  was 
the  most  familiar  thought  which  was  the  most  impure.  Honour 
had  fled  from  men,  chastity  from  women,  innocence  from 
children. 

And  what  contrasts  appeared  in  that  society  to  their  eyes ! 
They  saw  one  emperor  cutting  away  a  mountain  to  build  an 
imperial  palace ;  and  another  summoning  a  council  of  state  to 
decide  about  the  cooking  of  a  fish.  They  saw  the  name  and 
fame  and  glory  of  the  old  republican  heroes  all  forgotten  by 
their  degenerate  descendants,  who  now  prided  themselves  in 
nothing  so  much  as  their  skill  in  detecting  at  a  single  taste  the 
native  bed  of  an  oyster  or  sea-urchin.  Effeminate  nobles  wore 
light  or  heavy  finger-rings  to  accord  with  the  varying  tem- 
perature of  the  summer  and  winter  seasons,  and  yet  could  order 
a  score  of  slaves  to  be  crucified  as  an  after-dinner  pastime. 
This  was  the  time  when  blood-thirsty  myriads  were  watching 
the  death-agonies  of  gladiators  whose  vengeful  kindred  were 
raging  all  along  the  borders  of  the  empire  ;  when  Roman  sol- 
diers abroad  were  beating  back  the  Dacians,  or  marching 
against  the  Druids,  in  the  Isle  of  Mona,  while  Boadicea  led  on 
the  tribes  to  the  vengeance  of  Camulodune  ;  and  when  Roman 
citizens  at  home  were  scrambling  for  their  daily  dole  of  victuals 
at  the  doors  of  the  great ;  when  he  was  most  fortunate  who  was 
most  vicious ;  and  they  obtained  wealth  and  honour  who,  by 

ti83^  ., ;-.   ...  2 


k\ 


I 


^ 


r 


THE  JEW  WHO  HAD 


forging  wills,  had  defrauded  the  widow  and  the  orphan  ;  when 
a  fierce  populace,  fresh  from  the  amphitheatre,  and  a  nobility 
polluted  by  vices  without  a  name,  and  an  emperor  stained  with 
the  guilt  of  a  mother's  murder;  gazing  mockingly  upon  the 
death-agonies  of  martyrs  who  died  in  flames,  clothed  in  the 
tunica  molesta  ;  when,  for  year  after  year,  and  generation  after 
generation,  all  these  evils  grew  worse,  till,  in  the  fearful  words 
of  Tacitus,  "  They  would  have  lost  memory  also  with  their 
voice,  if  it  had  been  possible  as  well  to  forget  as  to  keep  silent." 
It  may  be  urged,  however,  that  there  was  much  virtue  in 
spite  of  all  this  vice.  True,  there  was  virtue,  and  that  too  of  a 
high  order.  There  are  names  which  glow  with  a  lustre  all  the 
brighter  for  the  darkness  that  is  around  them.  They  irradiate 
the  gloom  of  Tacitus'  histories ;  and  make  us  exult  in  seeing 
how  hard  it  is  for  corruption  to  extinguish  the  manly  or  the 
noble  sentiment.  Paetus  Thrasea,  Aurulenus  Rusticus,  Helvidius 
Priscus  would  adorn  any  age.  Lucan  alone  might  have  en 
nobled  this.  Seneca's  life  may  have  been  doubtful ;  but  who 
can  remain  unmoved  at  the  spectacle  of  his  death  ?  Afterward 
Tacitus  and  Pliny  sustained  their  virtuous  friendship,  and  fourd 
others  like  themselves — kindred  spirits — who  made  life  not 
endurable,  but  delightful.  In  that  age  and  in  the  subsequent 
one  there  were  good  and  high-hearted  men;  for  did  not  the 
"good  emperors"  succeed  the  "bad  emperors  1"  Trajan 
would  have  adorned  the  noblest  age  of  the  world.  Marcus 
Aurelius  stands  among  the  first  of  those  who  have  ruled.  In 
addition  to  these  great  characters  of  history,  there  were  no 
doubt  many  men,  of  an  obscure  order,  who  passed  through  life 
in  an  obscure  way,  and  yet  were  honest  and  high-minded 
citizens.  There  were,  no  doubt,  many  like  Juvenal's  Umbricius, 
who  deplored  the  vice  around  them,  and  believed  with  him  that 
Rome  was  no  place  for  honest  men ;  but  tried  to  be  honest  in 
their  way.  There  must  have  been  many  of  these,  of  whom 
Umbiicius  is  only  a  type ;  too  plain-spoken  to  succeed  in  a 


t 


I 


APPEALED  UNTO  CMSAR. 


19 


irhen 

Dility 

with      *  , 

I  the 

[\  the 

after 

words 
their 

ilent." 

,ue  in 

o  of  a 

all  the 

radiate 

seeing 

or  the 

jlvidius 

ive  en- 

ut  who 

;erward 
fourd 

life  not 
lequent 
ot  the 
Trajan 
arcus 
:d.     In 
re  no 
igh  life 
linded 
iricius, 
im  that 
inest  in 
whom 
;d  in  a 


generation  of  flatterers,  and  too  high-minded  to  stoop  to  that 
baseness  by  which  alone  advancement  could  be  obtained. 

Moreover,  Rome  was  not  the  world.  Beside  the  capital, 
there  was  the  country.  There,  as  Umbricius  says,  might  be 
found  simplicity,  virtue,  and  honesty.  Among  the  simple,  the 
high-minded,  and  the  frugal  rustics,  the  vice  of  the  city  was  un- 
known. In  the  rural  districts,  without  doubt,  the  great  masses 
of  men  continued  as  they  had  ever  been — neither  better  nor 
worse. 

Let  us  allow  all  this — that  there  was  this  exceptional  morality 
in  the  city,  and  this  rural  simplicity  in  the  country.  What 
remains  ? 

Simply  this :  that  after  all,  Rome  was  the  head,  the  heart, 
and  the  brain  of  the  world.  It  guided.  It  led  the  way.  What 
availed  all  else  when  this  was  incurably  disorganized)  Its 
virtuous  characters  found  themselves  in  a  hopeless  minority. 
They  could  do  nothing  against  the  downward  pressure  all 
around  them.  They  struggled,  they  died ;  and  other  gene- 
rations arose  in  which  the  state  of  things  was  worse.  The 
whole  head  was  sick,  the  whole  heart  faint  The  life  of  the 
state,  as  it  centred  round  its  heart,  drew  corruption  from  it 
which  passed  through  every  fibre.  Society  was  going  to  decay, 
and  one  thing  alone  could  save  the  world. 

That  remedy  was  now  brought  by  the  man  whom  we  have 
described. 

But  now  our  party  have  passed  under  the  dripping  archway 
of  the  Porta  Capena ;  and  the  centurion  conveys  to  his  destined 
abode  the  Jew  who  had  appealed  unto  Caesar. 


m^. 


\ 
\ 

SI  ,,  <  I        i  I 


IV  :• 


^■ 


(PON  the  slopes  of  the  Apennines,  in  the  vicinity  of 
Tibur,  stood  the  villa  of  Lucius  Sulpicius  Labeo. 
From  the  front  there  was  an  extensive  prospect, 
which  companded  the  wide  Campania  and  the 
distant  capital.  The  villa  was  of  modest  proportions,  in  com- 
parison with  many  others  near  it,  yet  of  most  elegant  style. 
The  front  was  decorated  with  a  broad  portico,  before  which 
was  a  terrace  covered  with  flowers  and  shrubbery ;  the  walks 
were  bordered  with  box-wood,  which  in  places  was  cut  into  the 
forms  of  animals  and  vases.  The  public  road  was  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away ;  and  a  broad  avenue  of  plane-trees  con- 
nected it  with  the  house,  winding  in  such  a  way  as  to  afford  a 
gentle  descent,  and  where  it  joined  the  road  there  was  a 
neat  porter's  house.  Behind  the  villa  were  out-houses  and 
barns;  on  the  right  was  an  extensive  kitchen-garden;  on 
the  left  an  orchard  and  vineyard,  surrounding  the  steward's 
house. 

Other  villas  dotted  the  slopes  of  the  mountains  far  and  neai. 
The  most  conspicuous  among  these  was  the  one  immediately 
adjoining,  a  most  magnificent  establishment,  which  far  ex- 
ceeded that  of  Labeo  in  extent  and  splendour.  This  was  the 
villa  of  Pedanius  Secundus,  at  this  time  prefect  of  the  city. 
From  the  terrace  of  Labeo  the  greater  part  of  this  estate  could 
be  seen ;  but  the  eye  rested  most  upon  a  sickening  spectacle  at 


THE  YOUNG  ATHENIAN. 


•I 


the  gates  of  Secundus,  where  two  wretched  slaves  hung  upon 
the  cross,  whose  faint  moans  showed  that  life  'Was  not  yet 
extinct. 

It  was  early  dawn,  and  the  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  but  in  the 
neighbouring^  villa  the  sound  of  voices  showed  that  the  slaves 
were  out  for  the  day's  labour.  The  villa  of  Labeo,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  all  silent,  and  no  one  was  visible  except  one  figure 
under  the  portico.  «»r      '    " 

This  was  the  mistress  of  the  house,  a  lady  of  exquisite  beauty, 
who  was  yet  in  the  bloom  of  her  youth.  Her  manner  indicated 
extreme  agitation  and  impatience.  She  would  pace  the  portico 
in  a  restless  way  for  a  time,  and  then,  hastening  down  the  steps 
to  the  terrace,  she  would  look  eagerly  along  the  public  road  as 
though  awaiting  some  one. 

At  length  her  suspense  ended.  The  sound  of  horse's  feet 
came  from  afar,  and  soon  a  single  rider  came  galloping  rapidly 
along.  He  turned  in  to  the  gateway,  ran  up  the  avenue,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  more  had  reached  the  house.  The  lady  had 
hurried  down  as  soon  as  she  saw  him,  and  stood  waiting  for 
him,  and  encountered  him  in  the  avenue.  The  rider  leaped 
from  his  horse  and  carelessly  let  him  go.  The  lady  seized  both 
his  hands  in  a  strong,  nervous  grasp ;  and,  in  a  voice  which 
expressed  the  deepest  agitation,  she  asked,  hurriedly, — 

"Well,  what  news?" 

She  spoke  in  Greek.  For  a  moment  the  other  did  not  reply, 
but  looked  at  her  with  a  troubled  face,  which  he  vainly  tried  to 
render  calm. 

There  was  a  strong  likeness  between  the  two  as  they  stood 
thus,  looking  at  one  another — the  likeness  of  brother  and 
sister.  In  botii  there  were  the  same  refined  and  intellectual 
features  of  the  purest  Greek  type,  the  same  spiritual  eye  and 
serene  forehead.  But  in  the  woman  it  was  softened  by  her 
feminine  nature ;  in  the  man  it  had  been  expanded  into  the 
strongest  assertion  of  intellectual  force. 


91 — — 


V 


<   I     < 

'I 


li 


••  THE  YOUNG  ATHENIAN. 

"  My  sweet  sister,"  he  said  at  last,  speaking  also  v^  Greek, 
with  a  purity  of  accent  that  could  only  have  been  acquired  by 
a  residence  under  the  shadow  of  the  Athenian  Acropolis — "  my 
sweet  sister,  there  is  no  reason  for  such  agitation.  I  have 
heard  nothing  directly ;  but  I  firmly  believe  Labeo  to  be  safe." 

"You  have  heard  nothing,"  she  repeated,  breathlessly. 
"  What  am  I  to  do  V 

"  Yes,  dearest ;  I  have  heard  good  news  and  bad  news,  but 
nothing  from  Labeo.  But  you  are  so  nervous  that  I  am  afraid 
to  say  anything.  Come,"  and,  taking  her  hand  aflfectionately, 
he  walked  with  her  toward  the  portico.  •   '  '  ^^ 

"  Helena,  do  you  think  you  can  bear  what  I  have  to  tell  1" 
he  asked,  as  they  stood  there  together. 

She  looked  up  at  his  anxious  face,  and  pressed  her  hand  to 
her  heart  with  a  quick  gesture.  Then  she  replied,  in  a  voice  of 
forced  calmness, — 

"  Cineas,  suspense  is  worse  than  anything.  Tell  me  exactly 
what  you  have  heard.  Don't  conceal  anything.  I  want  to 
know  the  very  worst,  whatever  it  is." 

After  a  brief  pause,  Cineas  said, — 

"  Helena,  you  are  right.  Suspense  is  the  worst.  I  have 
nothing  to  tell  you  which  you  may  not  know.  I  know,  too, 
your  strength  of  character,  and  I  solemnly  declare  that  I  will 
not  conceal  anything  from  you.  At  the  same  time  I  want  you 
to  see  things  as  they  really  are,  and  not  sink  at  once  into 
despair.  Recall  for  a  moment  the  last  letter  which  you  re- 
ceived from  Lucius.     How  long  ago  was  it?" 

"  I  have  not  heard  from  Lucius  for  more  than  two  months," 
said  Helena ;  "  ever  since  they  moved  away  from  London  to 
Camulodune  to  prepare  for  that  fatal  march  to  Mona.  Lucius 
spoke  very  joyously,  told  about  the  Druids  and  their  cruel 
rites,  praised  the  ability  of  Suetonius,  and  filled  his  letter  with 
praises  of  his  genial  friend  Agricola,  who  was  his  tent  com- 
panion." 


I 
III 


THE  YOUNG  A  THENIAN. 


•s 


'  "  You  know  that  Suetonius  is  one  of  the  best  generals  in  the 
army — perhaps  the  very  best  after  Corbulo." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Helena. 

"  You  know,  too,  that  his  lieutenants  are  all  men  of  vigour 
and  bravery ;  and  his  selection  of  such  men  as  Agricola  and 
Lucius  for  his  aids  shows  his  shrewdness  and  perception." 

"  True,  Cineas." 

"  Well,  think  on  this  now,"  said  Cineas,  in  a  voice  which  he 
meant  to  be  cheerful.  "  The  only  danger  which  you  can  fear 
is  disaster  to  that  army.  No  tidings  have  come  from  it  for  some 
time.  But  such  a  general  as  Suetonius  can  scarcely  be  in  danger 
of  disaster.  The  reason  why  we  have  not  heard  is  because  the 
Britons  have  been  rising  in  insurrection  in  his  rear,  and  break* 
ing  off  his  communications." 

Helena  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  her  brother  with  un- 
changed sadness.  •- 

"We  ought,  then,  to  believe  that  Suetonius  will  shortly 
emerge  from  the  gloom,  and  shatter  the  barbarian  power  to 
pieces." 

"Yes;  but  you  have  not  yet  told  me  the  last  news  from 
Britain,  and  how  do  I  know  what  to  believe  or  think  Y"  said 
Helena,  anxiously. 

"  Because  I  wished  you  to  bear  this  in  mind, — that,  whatever 
Las  happened,  the  army  is  safe,  and  so  is  Labeo.  Suetonius 
will  appear  with  his  legions,  and  take  revenge." 

"  O  Cineas,  keep  me  no  longer  in  suspense ! "  said  Helena, 
in  a  tremulous  voice.  "  Tell  all — all.  This  suspense  will  kill 
me.     Let  me  know  the  very  worst." 

"  My  dearest  sister,"  said  Cineas,  in  a  voice  which  he  vainly 
endeavoured  to  render  calm,  "  the  whole  of  Britain  is  in  arms 
against  the  Romans."  ' 

Helena  turned  pale  as  death,  and  staggered  back  a  few  paces; 
but  Cineas  caught  her  hands  and  held  them  in  his. 

"  Can  you  bear  to  hear  more  1"  he  asked  anxiously. 


V 


t4 


THE  YOVNG  ATHENIAN. 


I     ■ 


'        t 


Their  leader  ii 


"  All,"  replied  the  other,  in  a  whisper. 

"The  whole  island    is  at   their  mercy. 
Boadicea." 

"Boadicea!" 

"  The  same." 

"  The  one  who  has  suffered  such  wrongs  !    Just  Heaven  I" 

"  The  very  same.  She  has  roused  all  the  tribes  to  madness, 
and  they  follow  her  wherever  she  leads." 

"Oh!"  cried  Helena,  "what  vengeance  will  be  sufficient  for 
such  wrongs  as  hers ! "  She  clasped  her  hands  in  agony.  "  No 
resistance — no^none — can  it  be  possible,  and  Suetonius  is  in 
Mona  !    And  all  the  province  is  exposed  to  her  fury  I" 

Cineas  said  nothing,  and  his  silence  gave  assent 

"  Tell  all,"  said  Helepa,  coming  up  more  closely  to  him. 
"  All— what  of  the  colonies  1" 

"  Camulodune  has  been  taken." 

"  What  of  the  inhabitants  ?" 

"  Every  soul  has  perished." 

Helena  gave  a  groan,  and  clung  to  Cineas  for  support.  He 
caught  her,  and  prevented  her  from  falling. 

"  Boadicea  knows  no  mercy,  and  shows  none,'  he  went  on 
to  say :  "  with  her  two  daughters  she  fires  the  hearts  of  her 
followers  to  every  outrage.  You  can  imagine  all.  But  I  will 
tell  all  the  particulars  that  I  have  learned.  Yet  remember  that, 
whatever  I  may  tell  you,  Labeo  is  safe. 

"  It  appears  that  the  chief  vengeance  of  the  Britons  was 
directed  against  Camulodune.  The  conduct  of  the  veterans 
there  toward  the  natives  had  produced  this  result.  I  need  not 
remind  you  what  that  conduct  was.  The  worst  excesses  of 
Roman  soldiers  elsewhere  were  surpassed  here.  The  place  had 
but  a  handful  of  soldiers  when  the  natives  rose  in  rebellion. 
Alarm  and  panic  spread  through  the  city  when  they  heard  the 
news.  The  story  that  has  come  here  relates  a  great  number  of 
supernatural  incidents,  which  I  will  tell  you  so  as  to  give  it  to 


I    i!^ 


THE  YOUNG  A  THENIAN. 


«5 


He 


was 

rans 

not 

s  of 

had 

ion. 

the 

! 

irof 

tto 

1 

you  exactly  as  I  have  heard  it.  They  were  these  : — I'he  statue 
of  Victory  fell  down  without  cause.  Women  rushed  frantically 
about,  and  announced  impending  ruin.  In  the  cou'^cil-chambet 
voices  were  heard  with  the  British  accent ;  the  theuirc  was  filled 
with  savage  howlings ;  the  imagv  of  a  colony  in  ruins  was  seen 
in  the  water  near  the  mouth  of  the  Thames ;  the  sea  was  purple 
with  blood ;  and  at  the  ebb  of  the  tide  human  figures  were 
traced  in  the  sand. 

"  All  these  portents  were  described  to  one  another  among 
the  people  of  both  races,  with  many  other  exaggerations.  The 
colonists  were  filled  with  despair,  and  the  Britons  with  triumph. 
The  people  of  Camulodune  sent  off  to  Catus  Decianus,  the 
procurator,  for  a  reinforcement.  He  sent  about  two  hundred 
poorly-armed  men.  The  veterans  in  Camulodune  managed 
badly.  The  people  became  panic-stricken ;  and  in  the  midst 
of  this  the  Britons  took  the  town,  put  all  to  the  sword,  and 
finally  captured  the  temple,  where  a  resistance  had  been  made. 
A  few  fugitives  escaped,  and  carried  the  awful  tidings  to 
London." 

Helena  had  remained  perfectly  silent  during  this  nan-ative, 
listening  with  feverish  and  breathless  interest. 

"  I  cannot  understand,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  how  our  soldiers 
were  so  badly  managed.  It  gives  small  hope  to  me,"  she 
added,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  Petilius  Cerealiu  marched  with  the  ninth  legion  to  the  relief 
of  the  place,"  continued  Cineas ;  "  but  he  was  routed.  The 
infantry  were  cut  to  pieces,  and  the  general  escaped  with  the 
cavalry  only." 

Helena  looked  at  her  brother  with  deep  and  sorrowful 
meaning. 

"O  Cineas!" 

This  Was  the  worst  news  of  all.  It  seemed  like  a  death-blow 
to  her  hopes ;  for  it  was  not  a  scattered  detachment  that  had 
been  lost,  but  an  entire  legion. 


\ 


$6 


THE  YOUNG  ATHENIAN. 


f  In 


! 


"  It  was  rashness — it  was  madness,"  said  Cineas,  understand- 
ing his  sister's  thought,  "  to  meet  myriads  of  savages  with  one 
legion.  Suetonius  is  a  general  of  a  different  stamp.  He  will 
take  vengeance  for  all ;  and  thoroughly  too." 

"  No,  no  ;  he  will  be  shut  up  in  Mona ! "  said  Helena,  obsti- 
nate in  her  sorrow.  She  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  what 
might  be  in  store  for  her  husband. 

"  If  that  were  so,"  said  Cineas,  quietly,  "  there  are  fifty 
generals  that  would  gladly  undertake  to  relieve  him.  But  think 
for  a  moment  what  kind  of  a  man  Suetonius  is.  Why,  if  he  were 
shut  up  in  Ultima  Thule,  he  would  force  a  way  for  himself  back, 
and  bring  his  army  with  him.  No  Roman  general  need  fear 
disaster.  All  those  who  have  met  with  misfortunes  have  in- 
curred them  by  their  own  folly.  But  I  will  go  on  and  tell  the 
rest.  The  Britons,  after  defeating  Cerealis,  rolled  on  like  a 
tonent,  engulfing  everything.  They  are  advancing  now  toward 
Verulam  and  London.  Decianus  has  fled  from  Britain,  and  is 
now  in  Gaul." 

"  Fled  !  the  procurator  fled  !"  cried  Helena,  in  amazement. 

"  Yes ;  most  of  the  troops,  you  know,  are  with  Suetonius." 

"Why  cannot  he  collect  those  who  are  scattered  in  the 
garrisons  !  Oh,  the  coward  I  the  utter  coward  !  After  stirring 
up  the  wretched  barbarians  to  madness,  he  dreads  their 
vengeance.  First  a  ruffian,  then  a  coward."  And  Helena 
paced  up  and  down  in  her  restless  and  excited  mood,  chafing 
and  fretting,  and  finding  some  relief  in  her  indignation  at 
Cerealis. 

After  a  time,  she  came  back  to  Cineas,  and  said, — 

"  Cineas,  if  the  procurator  has  fled,  there  is  no  hope  for 
Suetonius." 

**  Hope — why,  there  is  certainty,"  said  Cineas,  in  as  confident 
a  tone  as  he  could  assume.  "  Think  for  a  moment :  a  large 
number  of  military  posts  yet  remain.  These  the  Britons  have 
not  touched.     Their  garrisons  can  be  collected  into  a  large 


THE  YOUNG  A  THENIAN. 


87 


army.  The  Britons  cannot  carry  on  a  siege.  They  are  too 
impatient.  If  they  do  not  take  a  place  at  the  first  onset,  they 
pass  on  to  a  weaker  one.  All  that  is  left  for  Suetonius  is  to 
march  back,  to  rally  to  his  standard  the  scattered  garrisons, 
and  then  march  against  the  rebels.  And  tell  me,  what  chance 
will  they  have  if  once  a  Roman  army  comes  against  them  under 
such  a  general  1  I  tell  you  " — and  his  voice  grew  more  con- 
fident as  he  went  on — "  I  tell  you,  there  is  only  one  result 
possible, — ruin  to  the  rebels.     Ruin — utter,  complete,  total !" 

There  was  now  a  long  silence.  Brother  and  sister  stood 
near  to  each  other.  Helena  was  occupied  with  her  own 
thoughts.  Cineas  refrained  from  disturbing  them.  He  had 
said  all  that  he  could. 

The  sun  had  risen  and  was  illuminating  the  magnificent 
prospect.  There  lay  Campania, — a  vast  plain,  green  with 
verdure,  rich  with  groves  and  orchards,  dotted  with  innumer- 
able houses,  increasing  in  their  multitude  till  they  were  con- 
solidated into  the  city  itself.  There  wound  the  T'ber  through 
the  plain,  passing  on  till  it  was  lost  in  the  distance.  There 
appeared 

"  The  Latian  coast  where  sprung  the  epic  war, 
'  Arms  and  the  man,'  whose  reascenduig  star 
Rose  o'er  an  empire  ;  and  upon  the  right 
TuUy  reposed  from  Rome ;  and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight, 
The  Sabine  farm  was  tilled, — the  weary  bard's  delight" 


After  a  while,  Helena,  in  her  restless  and  troubled  spirits, 
began  to  pace  the  portico  as  before.  Cineas  joined  her,  and 
walked  by  her  side.     Both  walked  for  a  time  in  silence. 

As  they  passed  the  door,  a  figure  darted  back,  as  though  to 
elude  observation.  He  then  went  into  the  atrium;  and,  as 
Cineas  and  Helena  passed  up  and  down,  he  managed  to  station 
himself  so  as  to  hear  the  greater  part  of  what  they  were  saying. 
His  complexion  was  swarthy ;  his  eyes  black,  piercing,  and 
sinister ;  his  expression  malevolent  and  cunning.     He  was  very 


r 


\\\ 


m  THE  YOUNG  ATHENIAN. 

large  in  stature,  with  powerful  limbs,  and  his  dress  indicated 
the  rank  of  household  steward.  This  was  the  man  who  was 
acting  the  spy  upon  these  two. 

After  a  long  pause,  Cineas  said,  "  Well,  I  suppose,  I  need 
not  ask  you  what  you  are  thinking  of.** 

"  I  am  thinking  of  Lucius,"  said  Helena,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
And  then  she  half  said  and  half  sang  to  herself  some  mournful 
lines  from  a  Greek  chorus, — 

'  "  Whom  ceaselessly  awaiting, 

Bede-.  cl  with  tears  I  go 
My  sad  hcirt  ever  bearing 
Its  crushing  weight  of  woe." 

"  Think  Helena,"  said  Cineas,  "  of  what  follows  in  the  same 
song ;  let  this  at  least  be  your  comfort,  if  you  will  not  believe 
my  assurances ;  you  know  the  words  as  well  as  I, — 

"  Fear  not,  my  child,  be  not  afraid ; 
Great  Zeus  on  high  remains : 
All  things  he  sees  with  eyes  divine. 
And  over  all  he  reigns." 

"2Jeus!"said  Helena,  mournfully ;  "ah!  there  is  the  diffi- 
culty. My  Zeus  is  the  Zeus  of  philosophy,  the  Supreme  One, 
the  inconceivable,  the  unapproachable.  All  my  life  I  have 
been  taught  to  adore  him,  to  worship  him  with  awful  reverence. 
But  do  you  not  see  what  an  immeasurable  distance  arises  to 
my  sight,  between  me  and  him  1  O  Cineas,  there  is  something 
after  all  in  the  vulgar  superstitions  which  makes  me  envy  those 
who  believe  in  them.  See  how  the  poor  and  illiterate  man 
takes  his  God  to  himself,  and  prays  to  him,  and  is  comforted 
while  he  prays.  The  common  sailor,  in  a  storm,  makes  his  vow 
to  his  patron  deity,  and  feels  comfort ;  he  thinks  that  he  will 
finally  escape,  and  hang  up  his  votive  tablet.  But  here  am  I 
in  a  worse  storm,  with  no  one  to  whom  I  can  look,  or  make  a 
vow," 

"  Now,"  said  Cineas,  "  you  forget  yourself.  What !  woiild 
you  give  up  your  own  lofty  conception  of  the  one  true  God,  for 


'-&:X 


THE  YOUNG  ATHENIAN. 


^9 


all  the  silly  fables  of  the  vulgar  religion  ?  Let  them  keep  their 
impure  deities,  their  Apollo,  their  Neptune,  their  Mars,  and 
their  Hercules.  We  have  been  taught  better,  and  can  adore 
the  great  God  of  the  Universe." 

"  Ah,  but  in  sorrow,  in  sorrow,  Cineas.  How  can  we  get  to 
him  1  Can  we  believe  that  he  will  really  notice  us?  The  poor 
wife  of  some  private  soldier  can  perform  her  sacrifice,  and  pray 
to  her  god,  who  she  thinks  will  help  her.  But  how  can  I 
venture  to  tell  my  petty  troubles  to  the  Eternal  One,  or  expect 
that  he  will  hear  me  i  No  I  No !  Do  you  not  remember 
these  words, — 

"' Seest  thou  not,  my  friend,  •       .• 

How  feeble  and  how  slow, 
And  like  a  dream  they  go, 
This  poor  blind  manhood  drifted  from  its  end,  '         '    :   < 

And  how  no  mortal  wnuiglings  can  confuse 
The  harmony  of  Zeus  f"' 

"  My  Helena,"  said  Cineas,  gently,  "  your  p.^esent  troubles 
make  you  forget  all  the  lessons  of  your  youth.  Why  do  you 
choose  the  most  despairing  utterances  of  the  poets?  Have 
you  forgotten  all  our  childhood  and  youth,  and  the  sublime 
teachings  of  our  glorious  Theophilus  %  Do  you  not  remember 
the  divine  teachings  of  our  revered  master,  about  the  nature  of 
God,  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  of  holiness,  and  of  prayer? 
Dearest  sister,  never  have  I  ceased  to  be  grateful  for  my  youth, 
when  I  had  such  a  teacher  to  fill  me  with  such  thoughts,  and 
you,  too,  for  my  associate  and  companion.  When  Labeo  took 
you  a  way,  I  felt  that  I  had  given  up  the  half  of  my  nature ; 
since  then,  I  have  tried  to  keep  up  that  ardent,  youthful  enthu- 
siasm, that  confidence  in  the  Supreme,  which  we  used  to  feel 
together.     How  is  it  with  you?    Have  you  lost  it?" 

"  Ah,  Cineas,  I  have  had  a  very  different  life  from  that  of 
the  enthusiastic  giil  whom  you  used  to  make  the  companion  of 
your  own  aspirations  and  day-dreams.  I  have  had  a  very  dif- 
ferent life  from  that  which  I  used  to  lead  in  Athens." 


3° 


THE  YOUNG  A  THENIAN. 


I 


"Do  you  call  ii  dreaming,  Helenal"  asked  Cineas,  with 
mild  reproach  in  his  voice — "all  those  aspirations  after  the 
good  and  the  beautiful^  that  long  search  after  the  divine  1" 

"  Forgive  me,  dearest  brother,"  said  Helena,  laying  her  hand 
gently  on  his  arm,  and  looking  up  with  glistening  eyes ;  "  I  did 
not  mean  that  at  all  \  I  meant  that,  in  my  manied  life,  I  have 
had  no  time  for  philosophy.  As  a  Rcrnan  matron,  I  have  had 
to  take  my  part  in  maintaining  the  honours  of  the  house  of 
Sulpicius  Labeo.  I  have  had  to  trav(jl  much.  I  have  lived  in 
Gaul,  and  especially  Britain,  for  years.  I  have  a  son,  whom  I 
must  train.  Does  this  leave  me  much  time,  dearest  Cineas, 
for  philosophical  abstraction  ?  But  yet  I  have  never  forgotten 
those  early  teachings.  I  honour  and  love  the  doctrines  of  the 
noble  Theophilus.  Whq  could  forget  *  The  Master?'  I  never 
can,  and  I  cherish  deep  within  my  memory  the  noble  senti- 
ments which  he  used  to  teach  us.  I  love  Plato  and  Pindar, 
and  .^Eschylus,  and  Sophocles  better  than  ever,  and  prize  more 
than  before  those  noble  passages  to  which  he  used  to  direct 
our  chief  attention.  I  know  large  portions  of  them  by  heart 
now,  as  well  as  I  used  to  in  Athens.  And  yet,  dearest  brother, 
in  this  life  of  mine,  and  among  all  my  occupations,  all  these 
give  me  no  comfort.  I  know  not  how  to  approach  the 
Supreme,  and  the  great  object  of  my  life  is  how  to  find  out 
the  way.  Can  you  tell  me  ?  Perhaps  you  can  rid  me  of  my 
greatest  trouble.  If  you  can,  then  tell  me.  You  have  advanced 
while  I  have  stood  still ;  you  have  preserved  all  your  youthful 
enthusiasm  for  the  Divine  and  the  Holy.  What  way  is  there  ? 
Let  me  know  it." 

"You  overrate  my  powers,  dearest  Helena,"  said  Cineas, 
with  deep  thoughttulness.  "  In  a  matter  like  this  it  is  difficult 
to  find  anything  like  certainty.  But  I  will  tell  you  all  that  I 
can. 

"  You  believe,  don't  you,  that  God  is  wise  and  benevolent  1 
He  created  all  things.     Is  it  not  natural  that  he  should  at  least 


THE  YOUNG  ATHENIAN. 


31 


with 


be  willing  to  attend  to  the  interests  and  well-being  of  hia 
creatures?" 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Helena,  musingly  j  "  that  is,  in  a  general 
way.     And  yet  this  gives  no  comfort  to  the  private  individual." 

"  If  he  is  just  and  benevolent,  don't  you  think  that  he  would 
be  willing  to  advance  the  interests  and  well-being  of  even  one 
individual?" 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  may  be  so." 

"  He  is  present  everywhere,  and  knows  all  things.  Re- 
member what  Socrates  says  in  Xenophon :  *  The  Divine  One 
is  so  great  and  of  such  a  nature  that  he  sees  and  hears  all 
things  at  the  same  tim  jrid  is  everywhere  present  and  takes 
care  of  all  things  at  the  same  time.' " 

"Yes;  that  is  true." 

"  Then  he  sees  and  hears  us  at  this  moment.  At  this  very 
moment,  dearest  sister,  he  is  taking  c^re  of  you  in  Italy  and 
Labeo  in  Britain." 

"  There  is  some  comfort  in  that  thought,"  said  Helena,  after 
a  pause. 

"  He  is  our  Maker,  the  Author  of  our  being,  and  *  we  are 
his  offspring,'  that  is,  his  children.  Why,  then,  should  not  this 
Being  be  willing  to  hear  us  both,  or  either  of  us,  at  this  time  1 
Can  you  find  anything  better  than  this  in  the  vulgar  supersti- 
tions %  Can  we  not  rely  on  such  a  One  as  this,  and  say  in  our 
hearts  to  him,  *  Thou  didst  make  me.  In  all  my  sorrow  I  turn 
to  thee,  and  ask  thee  for  help.'  Is  not  this  better  than  a  vow 
to  Neptune  or  Mercury?" 

"  But  the  ignorant  and  superstitious  feel  comfort  even  in 
making  the  vow,"  objected  Helena. 

"  To  that  I  will  only  say,  in  the  words  of  Plato,  *  The  Deity 
is  not  to  be  corrupted  by  bribes.  He  has  regard  only  to  our 
souls,  and  not  at  all  to  our  sacrifices  and  processions.' " 

"  Do  you  believe,  then,  that  we  may  ask  him  for  everything  ?" 

"  Not  at  all.     He  is  all-wise,  and  may  not  see  fit  to  grant  it. 


t 


I 


3« 


THE  YOUNG  ATHENIAN. 


He  has  his  own  purposes.  Submission  to  his  will  is  the  first 
and  highest  duty  of  every  one  who  prays  to  him.  Do  you  not 
remember  what  Socrates  says  in  the  same  dialogue  from  which 
I  have  just  quoted :  *  If  the  God  to  whom  you  are  going  to 
pray  should  suddenly  appear  to  you,  and  should  ask  you,  before 
you  had  begun  your  prayers,  if  you  would  be  satisfied  that  he 
should  grant  yon  some  one  of  the  things  we  just  spoke  of,  or 
that  he  should  permit  you  to  make  your  own  request ;  which 
would  you  think  most  safe  and  advantageous  for  you — whether 
to  receive  what  he  should  give  you,  or  to  obtain  what  you 
should  ask  from  him  V  " 

"  There  is  but  one  answer  to  that  question.  The  All-wise 
knoweth  best  -. 

"  '  Oh  never,  never,  let  me  raise 
Thistfeeble  will  of  mine. 
To  oppose  the  might  of  Him  who  rules  ;  ' 

All  things  with  power  divine ! ' "  ' 

"  Therefore,"  said  Cineas,  "  if  you  accept  that  solemn  prayer 
from  ^schylus,  you  will  take  still  more  readily  that  which 
Socrates  quotes.  It  is  the  truest  and  the  best  for  us.  You 
remember  it :  *  Great  God !  Give  us  the  good  things  that  are 
necessary  for  us,  whether  we  ask  them  or  not ;  and  keep  evil 
things  from  us  even  when  we  ask  them  from  thee  !' " 

"  But,  Cineas,  are  there  no  difficulties  %  Can  all  come  to 
God  ?  Is  there  no  preparation  1  Will  he  hear  all  men  indis- 
criminately?" 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Cineas,  thoughtfully,  "  that  there  must  be 
preparation." 

"  Without  doubt  j  but  of  what  kind  1" 

"  Deep  meditation  within  the  soul,  and  profound  abstraction 
for  the  time  from  all  external  things,  together  with  the  deepest 
reverence  and  the  most  humble  submission." 

"Yes,''  answered  Helena;  "and  you  know  what  Socrates 
says  here,  since  you  refer  to  him  so  much,  for  he  says  that  the 
purification  of  the  soul  is  this, — to  accustom  itself  to  retire  and 


.k\ 


THE  YOUNG  ATHENIAN, 


33 


raction 
leepest 


shut  itself  up,  renouncing  all  commerce  with  the  body  as  much 
as  possible,  and  to  live  by  itself  without  being  chained  to  the 
body.  Now,  for  Socrates  and  Plato,  and  the  grave  Theophilus, 
this  was  practicable.  If  I  were  like  you,  dearest  Cineas,  it 
might  be  possible.  If  I  were  a  great  philosopher,  like  Seneca, 
this  wovld  be  the  way  for  me  to  care  for  my  soul,  so  as  to  keep 
it  pure  before  God.  But  I  am  a  weak  woman,  in  the  midst  of 
maternal  cares.  To  separate  myself  from  these  cares,  and  live 
a  life  of  meditative  philosophy,  would  be  wrong — wrong  to 
my  child,  wrong  to  my  husband.  Don't  you  see  the  painful 
dilemma  in  which  I  am  placed  1" 

**  I  see  it,"  answered  Cineas ;  "  but  you  can  do  this  partially, 
at  least,  so  as  to  prevent  them  from  engrossing  all  your 
thoughts.  'The  soul  first  of  all,  then  all  other  things.'  So 
said  '  the  Master.' " 

"Ah!  you  don't  understand  my  life.  All  this  is  possible 
for  you,  but  not  for  me.  Philosophical  abstraction  for  me — a 
Roman  matron — impossible  !" 

"  Not  quite  that,"  said  Cineas.  "  A  Mrtuous  life,  like  yours, 
passed  in  the  performance  of  the  best  and  highest  duties  to  all 
around,  is  of  itself  a  life-long  purification  of  the  soul." 

"  I  try  to  do  my  best,"  said  Helena,  meekly.  "  And  yet  1 
rind  that  in  my  intense  love  for  my  child  and  husband  I  lose 
all  thoughts  of  the  Deity.  He  remains  to  me  a  majestic  vision, 
a  sublime  sentiment.  How  can  I  draw  near  ?  Oh,  that  I  could 
find  a  way  to  him !  I  think  life  would  be  doubly  sweet  if  I 
could  find  a  way  of  communion  between  nim  and  my  poor  self. 
I  adore  the  Deity,  but  fear  him.  I  know  not  how  to  address 
him,  or  e.en  by  what  name." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  continued,  in  a  sweet, 
low  chant,  murmuring  words  from  those  majestic  choruses 
which  were  so  dear  to  her : 


(188) 


"  O  Zeus ! — whoever  he  may  be^ 
If  to  be  thus  invoked  be  pleasing  to  him, 

3 


I  i 


n 

fl 

1'        ^ 

i 

^     I 

J. 

34  r/IE  YOUNG  A  THENIAN. 

)  By  this  I  call  on  him. 

.'. .,  For  weighing  all  things  well, 

i'.  When  I  in  truth  would  cast  away 

'  ;  Thef  unavailing  burden  from  my  soul,  ^ 

I  can  conjecture  none  to  help  save  Zeus." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Cineas,  "and  see  what  the  same  ore  says,"— 
and  he  himself  took  up  the  strain  : 

"  '  The  One  who  leadeth  mortals 

On  wisdom's  way ;  ■■ 

Who  bringeth  knowledge  out  of  suffering.'  " 

"  Ah  !  my  Helena,  I  have  often  thought  that  thus  the  Deity 
guides  us  *  on  wisdom's  way,'  bringing  for  us  '  knowledge  out 
of  suffering.'  I  firmly  believe  that  our  desire  to  know  him  is 
pleasant  to  him ;  and  among  all  the  things  that  purify  the  soul, 
the  very  best  is  the  ^piration  after  God.  If  we  desire  him, 
this  of  itself  proves  that  we  are  prepared  to  address  him. 
Friends  associate  with  one  another  when  they  have  sympathies 
in  common.  The  desire  to  approach  to  God  shows  that  in 
some  respects  we  are  like  him.  Now,  like  cleaves  to  like,  and 
where  there  is  an  aspiration  after  God,  there  is  an  approach  to 
him." 

"Yes;  but  will  God  come  to  usi  What  matters  it  how 
much  we  may  aspire?  We  can  never  reach  him.  Still  he 
remains  inaccessible." 

"  The  approach  is  something,  nevertheless." 

"But  in  my  condition  it  does  not  avail.  Alas!  Cineas,  I 
fear  the  longings  of  my  soul  cannot  be  gratified.  If  I  but  knew 
him,  I  might  go  to  him ;  but  how  can  I  go  to  him-  -how  can  I 
address  him?" 

"  My  early  life,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause,  "  and  your 
companionship,  and  the  instructions  of  *  the  Master,'  excited 
irrepressible  desires  within  my  mind — ideas  and  thoughts  that 
can  never  be  subdued.  You  pass  beyond  me,  brother  dearest," 
she  added,  in  mournful  tones ;  "  beyond  me.  You  are  going 
onward  and  upward  in  your  soul's  flight,  while  I  linger  near  the 


THE  YOUNG  A  THEN/AN. 


35 


\  . 


lys, 


»  Deity 
3ge  out 
1  him  is 
;he  soul, 
ire  him, 
;ss  him. 
mpathies 
5  that  in 
like,  and 
iroach  to 

Is  it  how 
Still  he 


'ineas,  I 
)ut  knew 
)W  can  I 


starting-place.  You  already  catch  glimpses  of  the  Deity,  while 
I  seek  after  him  in  vain.  I  know  not  how  to  address  him;  and 
if  I  did,  my  first  words  would  be,  *  Great  God  !  teach  me  how 
to  pray  to  thee.'" 

And  now,  as  she  spoke  these  words,  a  wonderful  thing 
occurred.  In  their  walk  along  the  portico,  they  often  went  to 
and  fro,  and  at  this  moment  they  reached  the  western  extremity, 
near  which  was  a  small  room  which  opened  out  toward  the 
front.  From  this  room  there  came  the  sound  of  a  sweet, 
childish  voice,  but  in  a  strangely  slow  and  solemn  tone. 

"  Hush !"  said  Helena,  laying  her  hand  on  her  brother's  arm. 

And  then  slowly  and  solemnly,  in  that  sweet,  childish  voice, 
as  if  in  direct  answer  to  the  yearning  cry  of  the  mother,  there 
came  these  words : 

"  Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven  !  Hallowed  be  thy  natne. 
Thy  kingdom  come.  Thy  will  be  done  on  earthy  as  it  is  in  heaven. 
Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread;  and  forgive  us  our  trespasses 
as  we  forgive  them  that  trespass  against  us.  And  lead  us  not  into 
temptation,  but  deliver  us  from  evil:  for  thine  is  the  kingdom^  the 
power  and  the  glory,  for  ever  and  ever.     Amen" 

Tears  burst  from  Helena's  eyes. 

"  What  words  are  these  ?"  she  cried.  "  'Our  Father;' " — and 
clasping  her  hands,  she  stood  listening,  looking  upward  at  the 
same  time,  as  though  from  a  half-formed  thought  that  she  might 
thus  see  that  "  Father." 


pd  your 

excited 

rhts  that 

I  dearest," 

re  going 

near  the 


I    'II 


TIL 


HEN  the  prayer  ceased,  they  waited  in  silence  for 
more.  But  no  more  words  of  prayer  were  heard 
The  voice  of  the  child  laughing  merrily  soon  arose, 
and  Cineas  looked  up  with  a  sigh. 

"  Ah,  Helena,"  said  he,  "  I  have  heard  something  which  is 
better  than  all  my  arguments.     Where  did  Marcus  learn  that  V 

"  I  don't  kijow,  unless  it  was  from  the  nurse." 

"The  nurse  I" 

Cineas  folded  his  arms,  and  stood  fixed  in  thought.  Helena 
silently  left  him  and  went  in.  After  a  while  he  looked  for  her, 
and  saw  that  she  had  gone. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured ;  "  the  mother  must  have  gone  to 
solace  herself  with  that  sweet  boy.  But  the  nurse,  —where  did 
she  learn  that  V 

He  walked  up  and  down  for  a  little  while,  and  then  saun- 
tered into  the  house,  and  reclined  on  a  couch  in  the  Peristyl- 
ium.  After  a  while  Helena  came  in,  followed  by  the  boy 
Marcus  and  the  nurse.  The  boy  had  an  heavenly  mildness 
with  features  strikingly  like  those  of  his  mother.  He  had 
her  spiritual  eyes,  and  sweet  expressive  mouth.  He  was  not 
more  than  seven  years  old,  and  rather  tall  for  his  age.  He 
came  bounding  up  to  his  uncle  with  the  air  of  one  sure  of 
a  welcome ;  and  Cineas  took  him  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  him 
to  his  heart,  and  looked  lovingly  at  his  beautiful  face,  and  said 


il 


ISAAC. 


11 


a  thousand  caressing  words.  After  a  short  time  he  went  run- 
ning out,  and  singing  up  and  down  the  portico. 

The  nurse  remained.  Cineas  had  noticed  her  before,  but 
now  he  regarded  her  with  very  unusual  interest.  "  Where,"  he 
thought,  "  did  that  prayer  originate  1  Had  those  marvellous 
words  been  taught  by  her  1  Where  did  she  learn  them  1  Did 
she  know'  their  deep  significance  '<"  He  inwardly  determined 
to  find  out  from  her. 

She  was  evidently  Greek  ;  perhaps  from  some  of  the  islands. 
Her  countenance  was  refined  and  delicate,  and  her  hair  as 
white  as  snow.  Her  features  in  youth  must  have  been  unusu- 
ally beautiful,  for  now,  even  in  age,  they  had  a  marvellous 
sweetness.  Cineas  was  most  impressed  by  her  expression.  It 
was  that  of  one  who  had  suffered  profoundly  from  some  deep 
sorrow  ;  and  yet,  though  he  had  never  seen  a  face  which  bore 
greater  traces  of  grief,  he  could  not  think  that  she  was  sad.  It 
was  rather  the  impression  of  a  sadness  that  was  past ;  overcome 
by  an  unalterable  and  almost  divine  patience.  It  was  the  face 
of  Niobe,  resigned  to  her  lot,  and  acquiescing  in  the  will  of 
Heaven.  "  Could  not  this,"  he  thought,  "  be  a  purified  soul  1" 
The  subject  of  the  late  conversation  occurred  to  him,  and  he 
thought  that  here  was  a  soul  which  1  ad  separated  itself  from 
material  things ;  here  was  one  that  might  hold  communion 
with  the  Supreme  ;  one  that  might  offer  up  that  sublime  prayer 
which  he  had  heard  from  Marcus.  He  wondered  what  had 
caused  that  awful  sadness,  now  so  completely  conquered,  and 
what  secret  power  so  enabled  her  to  turn  bitterness  into  sweet 
peace.  Those  eyes— calm  as  the  eternal  gaze  of  the  Egyptian 
Sphinx — showed  no  trace  of  present  passion  or  impatience. 
He  thought  that  it  could  not  have  been  philosophy  which  thus 
had  strengthened  her,  for  he  never  knew  a  woman — or  had 
heard  of  one — who  had  risen  to  that  height  of  philosophic 
serenity  to  which  a  few  gifted  men  had  arrived. 

But  his  interest  in  this  woman  did  not  allow  him  to  neglect 


I 


38 


rSAAC. 


pressing  duties  which  were  before  him.  In  spite  of  his  assur- 
ances  to  Helena,  he  felt  that  the  situation  in  Britain  was  a 
most  critical  one.  That  army  might  never  emerge  from  the 
gloom  that  surrounded  it.     Labeo  might  never  return. 

About  a  year  before  this  time,  when  it  was  determined  to 
crush  the  Druid  religion,  Labeo  had  sent  his  wife  and  child 
away  from  Britain  to  Rome.  When  he  did  this,  he  felt  that  a 
crisis  was  at  hand.  He  understood  the  fierce,  proud  nature  of 
the  Britons,  and  knew  that  they  would  make  a  desperate  resist- 
ance. He  acted  as  though  there  was  danger  before  him.  He 
made  a  will,  and  appointed  Cineas  the  guardian  of  the  boy  in 
the  event  of  his  own  death.  He  gave  the  documents  to 
Helena,  with  instructions  to  hand  them  over  to  Cineas.  This 
she  did  without  knowing  what  they  were. 

When  the  absence  of  Suetonius  had  been  somewhat  pro- 
tracted, Helena  had  told  Cineas  of  her  anxiety,  and  he  had  at 
once  left  Athens  for  Rome.  Other  circumstances  influenced 
him  in  going,  but  this  was  the  immediate  cause.  The  brother 
and  sister  had  kept  up  a  correspondence  ever  since  the  marriage 
of  the  latter ;  but  they  had  never  met  during  the  whole  time. 

The  joy  which  Helena  felt  at  meeting  with  her  beloved 
brother  for  a  time  lessened  her  sadness ;  and  his  encouraging 
words  taught  her  to  hope  for  the  best.  As  for  Cineas,  he  at 
once  determined  to  know  how  the  affairs  of  the  estate  were 
managed,  and  do  what  he  could  to  promote  its  welfare.  He 
had  not  been  there  more  than  two  weeks,  when  the  sad  news 
came  mentioned  in  the  previous  chapter. 

One  man  had  excited  his  deepest  distrust  at  the  very  outset 
This  v.'as  the  steward,  Hegio.  A  Syrian  by  birth,  his  origin 
was  base,  and  he  had  been  a  slave  when  he  first  came  to 
Rome.  By  some  means  he  had  elevated  himself,  and  had 
been  recommended  to  Labeo,  who  had  given  him  the  whole 
charge  of  the  estate.  Cineas  had  no  sooner  seen  him  than  he 
knew  that  he  was  a  villain.     His  cunning,  leering  face  and 


ISAAC. 


39 


furtive  eye  excited  the  abhorrence  of  the  young  .  'niau. 
Moreover,  the  steward  was  not  particularly  respectful.  There 
was  a  half-concealed  impertinence  in  his  manner  toward 
Cineas,  which  the  latter  determined  to  chastise.  At  anyrate, 
he  felt  that  this  was  not  the  man  to  control  such  important 
interests. 

He  had  come  to  the  determination  to  have  an  interview 
with  this  steward,  and  expel  him  from  his  ofiice  without  cere- 
mony. On  the  morning  of  this  day,  he  sent  a  summons  to  him 
to  come  to  him ;  but,  to  his  surprise,  found  that  he  had  gone 
to  Rome.  Unwilling  to  disturb  Helena,  he  went  to  see  the 
librarian,  a  man  of  whom  he  had  formed  a  high  opinion, 
although  he  was.  only  a  slave. 

This  man  was  a  Jew,  named  Isaac,  whom  Labeo  had  picked 
up  in  Syria  under  somewhat  remarkable  circumstances.  He 
had  been  concerned  in  a  violent  outbreak  of  his  countrymen, 
and  had  been  condemned  to  death.  Labeo,  however,  for 
some  reason  or  other,  had  pitied  the  poor  wretch,  and  had 
obtained  his  pardon,  and  saved  him  from  the  agonies  of  cruci- 
fixion. Thereupon  the  Jew  attached  himself  to  his  master  and 
the  family  with  the  deepest  affection  and  fidelity.  For  six 
years  he  had  followed  them  in  various  places ;  and  every  year 
had  only  added  to  the  high  regard  which  they  had  formed  for 
him.  When  the  family  came  to  Rome,  Isaac  accompanied 
them,  and  from  the  first  had  suspected  Hegio.  He  kept 
all  his  feelings  to  himself,  however ;  and  it  was  not  till  the 
arrival  of  Cineas  that  he  opened  his  mouth  on  the  subject. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  of  majestic  presence,  v/ith  strongly 
marked  Jewish  features.  His  beard  was  long,  his  eyes  in- 
tensely lustrous  and  piercing,  and  his  forehead  was  marked 
with  deep  lines.  His  education  had  been  of  the  most  varied 
character,  and  his  great  natural  abilities  had  enabled  him  to 
make  the  most  of  his  advantages.  He  was  familiar  with  Greek 
literature,  and  Latin  also ;  he  was  an  elegant  scribe  and  an 


^11 


ISAAC. 

accurate  accountant.  Such  was  the  man  upon  whom  Cineas 
now  placed  his  chief  reliance. 

As  he  entered,  the  stern  features  of  the  Jew  relaxed  into  a 
smile  of  welcome.  He  was  at  his  post  in  the  library.  It  was 
an  elegant  room,  surrounded  with  compartments  which  were 
divided  into  pigeon-holes,  in  each  of  which  the  scrolls  were 
placed.  Over  these  compartments  were  marble  busts  of 
authors,  and  on  a  large  table  in  the  centre  there  was  the  usual 
apparatus  for  writing,  binding,  polishing,  and  ornamenting  the 
volumes. 

Cineas  glanced  at  his  work,  and  saw  that  he  was  engaged  in 
transcribing  Homer. 

"  Isaac,"  said  he,  in  a  friendly  tone,  "  what  a  wonderful  book 
this  is  I  For  I  know  riot  how  many  ages  it  has  inspired  the 
mind  and  animated  the  life  of  the  Greeks.  All  of  us  are 
familiar  with  it.  Philosophers  and  peasants,  soldiers  and 
magistrates,  all  quote  it.  The  Romans  have  nothing  that  cor- 
responds with  it.  But  with  us  it  is  the  universal  book.  We 
think  Homer,  and  live  Homer.  Do  you  know  of  any  other 
nation  that  has  a  book  that  fills  such  a  place  as  tiiis  ?" 

Saying  this,  he  reclined  on  a  couch  at  one  end  of  the  apart- 
ment, and  looked  at  the  Jew. 

"  We  Jews,"  said  Isaac,  modestly,  "  have  a  Universal  Book. 
But  it  is  a  collection  of  all  our  writers.  It  is,  in  fact,  our 
literature.  We  all  know  it.  We  refer  to  it  always.  It  inspires 
our  hearts  and  guides  our  lives.  We  live  it  and  quote  it  much 
more  than  you  do  Homer." 

Cineas  was  surprised  at  hearing  this,  but  a  moment's  thought 
made  him  see  that  it  was  not  so  strange  a  thing  that  a  nation 
should  have  a  literature  which  they  prized  highly. 

"What  books  are  these  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Our  '•^cred  writings,"  replied  Isaac. 

"Are  they  poetic?" 

"  They  consist  both  of  poetry  and  prose." 


ISAAC. 


41 


"Are  there  any  epic  poems  among  themi"  said  Cineas, 
somewhat  amused  at  the  idea  of  a  barbarian  epic,  and  imagin- 
ing what  a  grotesque  violation  of  all  the  regular  rules  such 
a  production  would  be. 

"  No,"  said  Isaac.  "  We  have  no  epic  poem.  Yet  our 
earliest  history  is  not  unlike  a  grand  epic  in  its  subject.  Its 
theme  is  the  highest  and  most  important  conceivable.  It  tells 
how  the  universe  was  framed  by  the  Almighty ;  and  how  man 
was  born.  It  traces  the  events  of  the  earliest  ages,  and  shows 
how  all  mankind  have  come  from  one  source.  It  narrates  the 
wonderful  origin  of  our  nation,  and  its  marvellous  history. 
Perhaps  some  day  you  may  wish  to  read  that  story.  I  can 
assure  you  that,  even  to  a  mind  like  yours,  there  is  much  that 
can  afford  instruction  and  excite  admiration.  And  do  not 
think  it  a  mere  outburst  of  national  prejudice,  if  I  say  that  the 
man  who  penned  this  history  possessed  a  greater  genius  than 
Homer,  and  his  book  is  more  to  us  than  the  Iliad  to  the 
Greeks." 

"He  may  have  been  a  great  genius,"  said  Cineas,  good- 
naturedly;  "but  he  didn't  write  an  epic  poem,  and  so  he 
cannot  very  properly  be  put  in  comparison  with  Homer.  I 
should  like  very  much  indeed,  however,  to  see  the  book  of 
which  you  speak.  I  have  heard  something  about  it.  Was 
it  not  translated  into  Greek  at  Alexandria?" 

"It  was.  But  I  need  not  say  that  to  us,  who  know  the 
original,  the  translation  does  not  possess  the  same  beauties." 

"Of  course  not;  especially  in  poetry.  That  cannot  be 
translated.  Look  at  Cicero  translating  ^Eschylus.  Was  there 
ever  a  more  mournful  spectacle  ?  Even  Catullus  failed  with  a 
few  verses  of  Sappho." 

"  And  perverted  it,"  added  Isaac.  "  No  ;  poetry  cannot  be 
translated.  The  delicate  aroma  is  lost  when  you  attempt  to 
transmute  it." 

"  You  have  spoken  of  prose,"  said  Cineas,  returning  to  the 


I   ' 


'  b 


42 


ISAAC. 


subject  "What  kind  of  poetry  have  you?  Is  there  any 
dramatic  ?  If  so,  what  do  you  do  about  the  unities  ]  You 
cannot  have  discovered  those  rules." 

"  We  have  at  least  one  dramatic  poem,"  said  Isaac.  "  It  is 
not  for  the  public  stage,  however,  but  for  the  secret  meditation 
of  the  earnest  mind.  Its  theme  is  of  the  most  profound  that 
can  be  entertained  by  the  mind.  In  this  respect  it  resembles 
the  *  Prometheus '  and  the  '  CEdipus '  more  than  any  others  of 
the  Greek  plays.  It  treats  of  the  great  mystery  of  the  govern- 
ment of  God.  Such,  you  know,  is  the  theme  of  '  Prometheus.' 
You  know,  also,  how  .^Eschylus  has  failed  in  his  immense 
undertaking.  The  sublimest  poem  of  the  Greeks  makes  the 
Supreme  Being  a  tyrant  and  a  usurper,  himself  under  the  power 
of  the  inexorable  fates  j'nor  can  the  mystery  and  gloom  of  the 
*  Prometheus  Bound '  be  dispelled  by  the  *  Prometheus  Deli- 
vered.' A  benevolent  being  suffers  excruciating  torments,  on 
account  of  his  very  virtue,  at  the  hands  of  the  Supreme.  What 
is  there  more  terrible  than  this  1  ^Eschylus  went  beyond  his 
strength.  He  could  not  vindicate  the  justice  of  the  Ruler  of 
the  skies,  after  so  strongly  portraying  his  cruel  tyranny.  Nor 
is  it  better  in  the  'CEdipus.'  A  perfectly  innocent  man  is 
drawn  helplessly  into  the  commission  of  atrocious  crimes,  and 
finally  dies  in  mysterious  agony.  In  this,  too,  the  great  pro- 
blem is  started,  but  is  not  answered.  Such  works  fill  the  mind 
with  despair,  and  the  dark  mystery  of  life  grows  darker. 

"  But  in  our  poem  it  is  different.  The  problem  is  presented 
in  the  same  way.  A  perfectly  just  and  upright  man  is  suddenly 
involved  in  enormous  calamity.  There  is  the  same  spectacle 
of  unmerited  wrong  and  suffering,  which  appears  arbitrary  and 
unjust ;  the  same  things  which  tempt  man  to  charge  his  Maker 
with  cruelty — to  think  the  All-ruler  a  wicked  and  malevolent 
being.  But  here  it  is  all  answered — all  answered.  For  the 
answer  is  God/  All  is  leil  to  him.  He  speaks  and  vindi- 
cates himself  and  all  his  acts.     And  this  is  the  only  answer, 


ISAAC. 


43 


-i 


and  must  evei  be  the  only  one,"  continued  Isaac,  in  tones 
more  mournful  than  usual;  "the  only  one  to  him  who  asks, 
'  Why  do  I  suffer  1  / 

"  '  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  taketh  away, 
Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! ' 

*  What !  shall  we  receive  good  at  the  hand  of  the  Lord,  and 
shall  we  not  receive  evil  1 ' " 

Cineas  had  listened  with  the  deepest  attention.  Isaac  leaned 
his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  was  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

Cineas  then  hinted  that  he  saw  some  resemblance  in  those 
sentiments  to  Stoicism. 

"  Stoicism  ! "  said  Isaac,  looking  up  in  burprise.  "  Far  from 
it.  It  is  the  very  opposite.  For  the  Stoics  treat  of  man  without 
reference  to  God ;  but  we  look  at  God  altogether,  and  lose  our- 
selves in  him.  For  what  are  we  without  him  %  And  if  we  once 
lose  sight  of  him,  what  remains  but  despair  ?  But  in  him  all 
things  explain  themselves.  He  is  the  Infinite,  the  All-holy,  the 
All-wise.     In  him  I  put  my  trust." 

In  speaking  these  last  words,  Isaac's  manner  had  become 
changed.  A  deeper  tone  attached  itself  to  his  voice.  He 
seemed  rather  to  be  thinking  aloud  than  talking  to  Cineas.  In 
this  partial  abstraction  he  raised  his  eyes  with  an  expression  of 
unutterable  reverence  and  devotion,  and,  looking  upward,  he 
began  a  sort  of  rhythmic  chant — 

"  Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place 
From  all  generations. 
Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth, 
Or  ever  thou  hadst  formed  the  earth  and  the  world, 
^  Even  from  everlasting  to  everlasting 

Thou  art  God." 

He  ceased ;  and,  folding  his  hands,  looked  downward  again 
in  silence. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  express  the  mingled  surprise  and 
awe  with  which  Cineas  listened  to  these  words.  All  that  he 
had  ever  heard  of  the  mysterious  knowledge  of  the  Egyptians 


44 


rSAAC. 


j  * 


•71 

i 


I  i 


i         ^ 

! 


and  Asiatics  came  to  his  mind.  Was  there  much  like  this  in 
those  sacred  poems  of  which  Isaac  spoke  1  Then,  indeed,  his 
fond  praise  was  not  undeserved. 

"  That,"  said  Cineas,  **  is  from  one  of  your  poets,  I  suppose. 
Have  you  many  such  poems  as  thisi" 

"Many,"  said  Isaac,  with  emphasis;  "but  not  dramatic. 
They  are  chiefly  lyrical.  Just  as  in  your  dramatic  'orks  the 
loftiest  sentiments  are  found  in  the  lyrical  parts,  so  we  find  our 
noblest  conceptions  of  God  in  these.  We  are  a  religious  people, 
and  our  poets  were  prophets  of  God.  With  us,  as  with  the 
Romans  formerly,  poet  and  prophet  were  identified." 

"  In  what  possible  way  may  your  lyric  poets  compare  with 
ours  ! "  asked  Cineas,  curiously.  "  Have  you  anything  like  our 
metres  ?" 

"  We  have  a  rhythmical  system  of  our  owr  "nvention.     In 
former  times,  when  these  poems  were  written  and  sung,  our 
music  was  by  far  the  best  in  the  world." 
"What  are  the  subjects  of  them  ?" 

"There  is  only  one  subject  to  them  all,"  said  Isaac;  "but, 
as  that  subject  is  infinite,  so  the  themes  of  our  songs  are  ever- 
varying." 

"What  is  that  infinite  subject?"  asked  Cineas,  only  half 
understanding  him. 

"  God!"  said  Isaac,  slowly  and  with  a  certain  awful  reve- 
rence in  his  voice.  "  In  our  language  it  is  not  permitted  to 
utter  the  sublime  name." 

"Your  poetry,  then,  should  be  deeply  reverential,"  said 
Cineas,  struck  with  h's  manner,  and  sympathizing  with  the  deep 
feeling  evinced  by  Isaac  whenever  allusion  was  made  to  the 
Deity. 

"  I  know  of  no  such  thoughts  anywhere  else,"  said  he;  "  and 
you  know  I  am  acquainted  to  a  moderate  extent  with  Greek 
poetry.  But,  in  all  that  I  have  ever  seen,  there  is  nothing  like 
this  all-pervading  elevation  which  distinguishes  ours.    You  know 


ISAAC. 


45 


half 

reve- 
led to 


■! 


i5 


well  how  I  admire  the  wonderful  works  of  the  Greek  mmd; 
they  are  the  perfection  of  human  genius.  Yet  yours  is  the 
literature  of  the  intellect ;  ours,  that  of  the  soul.  It  is  spiri- 
tual— divine.  Let  Pindar  give  utterance  to  the  sublimest 
thoughts  of  Plato,  with  his  utmost  pomp  of  imagery  and  grand 
lyric  storm  of  passion,  and  you  will  understand  what  our  poems 
may  be." 

Cineas  repressed,  with  some  difficulty,  a  smile  at  what  he 
Jeemed  the  most  extravagant  national  pride.  The  solemn 
verses  which  he  had  heard  shortly  before  showed  that  there 
was  some  reason  for  Isaac's  praise;  and  yet,  when  he  put 
his  native  poets  above  Pindar  himself,  it  seemed  too  much. 
"After  all,"  thought  he,  "this  Asiatic  can  never  understand 
the  Greek  mind.  With  all  his  culture,  the  barbarian  instinct 
remains." 

If  he  had  noticed  Isaac  more  attentively,  he  would  have  seen 
that  he  had  become  much  changed  during  this  conversation. 
Every  moment  his  eye  glowed  with  a  more  intense  lustre;  his 
hands  clenched  themselves  firmly;  his  breathing  grew  more 
rapid.  His  manner  also  changed.  He  spoke  more  abruptly, 
and  often  rather  to  himself  than  to  Cineas.  His  tone  was 
almost  authoritative  at  times.  That  grand  figure  might  have 
served  as  a  model  for  Moses.  The  recollection  of  his  nation 
and  its  glories,  and  all  the  might  of  the  God  of  Israel,  burned 
within  his  heart  and  transformed  him.  He  a  slave  %  He  looked 
rather  like  one  of  those  heroic  Hebrews  who,  in  the  days  of 
the  Judges,  had  at  different  times  led  up  the  people  to  break 
their  bands  asunder,  and  dash  in  pieces  the  oppressor,  like 
Ehud,  or  Gideon,  or  Jephthah. 

"  I  am  all  curiosity  to  hear  some  more  of  your  poetry,"  said 
Cineas.  "Can  you  translate  some  for  me  which  would  give 
me  an  idea  of  it  1  If  you  can  repeat  any  like  that  which  you 
spoke  a  short  time  since,  I  should  like  to  hear  it." 

Isaac  did  not  answer.     He  slowly  rose  from  his  seat,  and 


46 


ISAAC. 


m 


stood  before  Cineas.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  the  Athenian 
noticed  the  change  th^t  had  come  over  the  Jew.  His  mag- 
nificent head,  with  its  glowing  eyes,  his  flowing  beard  and 
clustering  hair,  together  with  the  commanding  mien  which  he 
had  assumed,  made  him  one  of  the  grandest  beings  that  Cineas 
had  ever  seen.  He  thought  that  such  a  head  might  do  for 
Olympian  Jove.  He  wondered  at  the  change,  and  could  not 
understand  it. 

Isaac  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  began,  in  a  voice 
which  was  at  first  calm,  but  afterwards  grew  more  and  more 
impassioned, — 

"  I  will  love  thee,  O  Lord,  my  strength. 
The  Lord  b  my  rock,  and  my  fortress,  and  my  deliverer ; 
My  God,  my  strength,  in  whom  I  will  trust ; 
My  buckler,  and  the  horn  of  my  salvation,  and  my  high  tower. 
I  will  call  upon  the  Lord,  who  is  worthy  to  be  praised : 
So  shall  I  be  saved  from  mine  enemies. 
The  sorrows  of  death  compassed  me, 
And  the  floods  of  ungodly  men  made  me  afraid. 
The  sorrows  of  hell  compassed  me  about ; 
The  snares  of  death  prevented  me. 
In  my  distress  I  called  upon  the  Lord, 
And  cried  unto  my  God : 
He  heard  my  voice  out  of  his  temple, 
And  my  cry  came  before  him  even  unto  his  ears. 
Then  the  earth  shook  and  trembled, 
The  foundations  also  of  the  hills  moved. 
And  were  shaken  because  he  was  wroth. 
There  went  up  a  smoke  out  of  his  nostrils, 
And  fire  out  of  his  mouth  devoured : 
Coals  were  kindled  by  it. 
He  bow&d  the  heavens  also  and  came  down : 
And  darkness  was  under  his  feet. 
And  he  rode  upon  a  cherub,  and  did  fly : 
Vea,  he  did  fly  upon  the  M'ings  of  the  wind. 
He  made  darkness  his  secret  place. 
His  pavilion  round  about  him  were  dark  waters 
And  thick  clouds  of  the  skies. 

At  the  brightness  that  was  before  him  his  thick  clouds  passed ; 
Hailstones  and  coals  of  fire. 
The  Lord  also  thundered  in  the  heavens. 
And  the  Highest  g^ve  his  voice ; 
Hailstones  and  coals  of  fire, 
Vea,  he  sent  out  his  arrows,  and  scattered  them ; 
And  he  shot  out  his  lightnings  and  discomfited  them. 


ISAAC, 


m 


Then  the  channels  of  the  waters  were  seen,  , 

And  the  foundations  of  the  world  were  discovered,  j 

At  thy  rebuke,  O  Lord,  ' 

At  the  blast  of  the  breath  of  thy  nostrils. 

He  sent  from  above,  he  took  me, 

He  drew  me  out  of  many  waters. 

He  delivered  me  from  my  strong  enemy, 

And  from  them  which  hated  me ; 

For  they  were  too  strong  for  me. 

They  prevented  me  in  the  day  of  my  calamity. 

But  the  Lord  was  my  stay. 

He  brought  me  forth  also  into  a  large  place ; 

He  delivered  me,  because  he  delighted  in  me." 

The  rehearsal  of  these  words  formed  a  memorable  scene  foi 
Cineas.  After  the  first  few  lines  Isaac  grew  more  and  more 
excited,  until  he  arose  to  a  sublime  passion  of  fervid  enthu- 
siasm. His  clear,  full  voice  intoned  into  each  line,  so  that  it 
came  to  Cineas  like  the  peal  of  a  war-trumpet,  and  it  subdued 
all  his  spirit  They  blended  themselves  with  the  words  of  the 
prayer  of  Marcus.  "  Whence  came  all  these  words  ? "  he 
thought.  In  his  rapt  attention,  he  traced  the  sublime  idea  of 
the  poet,  although  he  could  not  comprehend  all  his  expressions. 
For  that  poet  began  by  singing  of  his  own  love  to  his  Maker, 
after  which  he  went  on  to  portray  all  the  powers  of  the  Infinite 
One  put  forth  to  save  him — a  man.  It  was  like  a  new  revela- 
tion to  Cineas.  Here  was  a  lofty  assertion  of  that  which  he 
could  scarcely  hope  for.  He  could  say  to  himself  that  it  was 
probable,  that  it  was  desirable;  but  here  was  one  who  declared 
that  it  had  actually  been.  The  one  had  conjecture ;  the  other, 
experienc  j.  That  experience  was  here  narrated;  and  in  what 
words !  How  coldly  sounded  the  loftiest  language  of  Plato 
beside  these  divine  utterances ! 

"  Go  on  !  go  on ! "  he  cried,  as  Isaac  paused ;  "  or  no — 
stop — go  back  and  repeat  it  all  over — over  and  over — till  I 
have  fixed  these  marvellous  words  in  my  memory." 

"  I  will,  O  Cineas,"  said  Isaac;  "but  these  are  only  a  part 
of  many  other  such,  which  are  the  stay  and  the  solace  of  my 
life ;  and  not  of  mine  only,  but  of  all  my  afiiicted  nation." 


4« 


ISAAC. 


H 


H 


He  paused;  a  sigh  burst  from  him;  and  he  seemed  to 
struggle  with  overpowering  emotion.  "  No,  no,"  he  murmured 
to  himself,  "I  must  not  think  of  it;"  and  then  turning  to  the 
Athenian,  "  Noble  Cineas,  pardon  my  weakness ;  but  it  over- 
comes me  whenever  I  think  of  my  country." 

Again  his  emotion  overpowered  him ;  tears  welled  from  his 
eyes, — 

"  1  jw  shall  we  sing  the  Lord's  song 
in  a  strange  land  ! 
>         If  I  forget  thee,  O  Jerusalem, 

Let  my  right  hand  forget  her  cunning ; 

"'f  I  do  not  remember  thee, 

Let  my  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth ; 

If  I  prefer  not  Jerusalem  above  my  chief  joy." 

Again  he  paused,  trying  to  subdue  his  passionate  sorrow. 

Cineas  was  much  ambsed  by  the  agitation  of  this  extraordi- 
nary man.  The  longing  homesickness  evinced  by  his  words 
and  tones  profoundly  moved  him.  He  thought  the  scene  too 
painful  for  this  broken-hearted  exile.  He  rose  and  came  up 
to  him. 

"  Isaac,"  said  he,  speaking  in  a  voice  of  tenderest  and  most 
generous  sympathy,  and  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  Jew, 
"  let  me  not  be  the  cause  of  so  much  agitation.  Forgive  me. 
I  have  opened  mournful  memories.  Think  of  these  things  no 
more." 

Isaac  rallied  at  once.  He  looked  at  Cineas  with  a  glance 
of  gratitude  and  affection. 

"Alas,"  he  said,  with  a  sad  smile,  "I  think  of  these  things 
all  the  time,  and  dream  of  them  by  night.  Pardon  me.  I 
have  lost  my  selfcontrol,  and  have  been  led  away  by  your 
warm  sympathy  to  forget  myself.  Another  time  we  will  talk  of 
these  things.  But  I  will  write  out  some  of  these  verses  which 
you  appear  to  appreciate,  as  I  cannot  trust  myselr  to  recite 
them." 

And,  taking  his  pen,  he  traced  out  the  verses  on  a  sheet  of 
papyrus,  a  J  then  handed  it  to  Cineas. 


H 


ISAAC. 


49 


"  And  now,"  said  Cineas,  anxious  to  change  the  conversation, 
"  I  will  tell  you  in  a  few  words  the  business  that  brought  me 
here  to-day." 

He  then  proceeded  to  relate  the  action  of  Labeo,  and  his 
own  appointment  as  guardian  in  case  of  the  former's  death. 

"  Now,  Isaac,"  he  continued,  "  from  what  I  have  heard  and 
seen  of  you,  I  have  confidence  both  in  your  honesty  and  in- 
telligence. I  will  need  an  able  assistant  in  the  work  that 
devolves  upon  me ;  for  I  intend  shortly  to  assume  the  charge 
of  this  family  and  estate." 

As  Cineas  said  this,  Isaac's  fine  face  was  overspread  with  a 
flush  of  genuine  and  unaffected  delight. 

"  You  yourself,  Cineas  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Then  I  am  free 
from  one  great  and  distressing  anxiety.  I  have  heard  that  your 
own  possessions  are  vast,  and  that  your  wealth  is  equal  to  that 
of  the  richest  in  Rome.  You  can  understand  the  business  of 
this  estate  the  more  readily,  and,  what  is  better,  you  can  per- 
ceive if  anything  has  been  mismanaged." 

"  That  is  what  I  wish  to  discover.  You  know  that  I  already 
dislike  and  suspect  this  Hegio.  He  has  been  controller  and 
manager  of  this  estate  for  three  years ;  and  does  what  he  pleases. 
I  must  see  what  he  has  been  doing.  I  wish  you  now  to  tell 
me  everything  that  you  know  about  him.  Does  Hegio  spend 
much  time  in  Rome  1 " 

«  Much." 

"What  for?" 

"  Ke  is  engaged  in  speculations." 

"What  are  they?" 

"  He  originally  began  by  buying  rarities  for  the  table  of  the 
emperor — particularly  African  truffles.  He  has  now  for  some 
time  been  engaged  in  loaning  money. ' 

"  Loaning  money  1" 

"  Yes." 

"Is  he  rich?" 

(188)  4 


5« 


ISAAC. 


:( 


(tit 


"  No ;  but  he  controls  much  money,"  said  Isaac,  with  deep 
meaning  in  his  tone. 

"  Labeo's,  you  mean,  I  suppose,"  said  Cineas. 

'« Yes." 

"  Perhaps  he  loans  the  money  on  account  of  the  estate  so  as 
to  enrich  his  employer." 

**  The  money  is  certainly  Labeo's.  Whether  he  will  be  en- 
riched or  not  is  altogether  another  question.  Hegio's  great 
acquaintances  have  spoiled  him,"  continued  Isaac,  somewhat 
dryly.  "  Seneca,  the  wonderful  philosopher  and  moralist,  has 
shown  him  how  to  double  his  income  within  a  year  by  loaning 
it  judiciously.  Tigellinus  is  now  teaching  him  how  to  squander 
it." 

"  Tigellinus !  "  ' 

"  Yes.  Hegio  sometimes  confounds  Tigellinus  with  Labeo, 
and  hardly  knows  which  is  his  master." 

"  How  1"  asked  Cineas,  not  quite  understanding  him. 

"  By  paying  to  him  the  money  of  Labeo,  and  making  returns 
of  accounts  to  him." 

"  Great  Zeus  !"  cried  Cineas,  springing  up.  "  How  do  you 
know  this  1" 

"  My  gratitude  to  Labeo,  and  affection  for  his  noble  wife  and 
child,  have  always  made  me  watchful  over  this  family.  When 
we  arrived  here  I  marked  this  man.  I  knew  that  such  a  face 
could  not  cover  an  honest  heart.  I  knew  that  he  was  a  cun- 
ning scoundrel,  and  determined  to  watch  him.  Circumstances 
favoured  me  very  greatly.  You  know  our  nation — how  it  is  all 
united,  wherever  it  may  be  scattered,  and  how  we  all  cling  to- 
gether. We  form  a  separate  community  wherever  we  go.  We 
all  know  one  another,  stand  by  one  another,  and  assist  one 
another  as  far  as  possible.  I  know  all  the  Jews  in  Rome. 
Many  of  them  are  very  wealthy,  and  know  all  the  secrets  of  the 
great  world. 

*'  As  soon  as  I  determined  to  watch  this  man,  I  found  that  I 


ISAAC. 


51 


would  need  moie  eyes  than  my  own.  He  passed  much  of  his 
time  in  Rome,  und  what  he  did  there  was  a  secret  to  me.  I 
knew,  however,  that  all  the  revenue  of  this  estate  did  not  go  to 
Labeo,  nor  anything  like  it.  Where  did  it  gol  To  some 
purpose  in  the  city.  In  order  to  find  this  out,  I  put  myself  in 
communication  with  my  own  people.  At  once,  all  their  know- 
ledge was  at  my  disposal ;  and  I,  a  poor  slave,  was  able  to 
know  the  whole  conduct  of  Hegio,  and  his  disposal  of  every 
hour  of  his  time,  every  day  of  his  life. 

"  Tigellinus  is  the  most  infamous  of  men,  and  already  has 
much  influence  with  Caesar.  He  is  aiming  at  the  highest 
position  in  the  state,  that  of  Commander  of  the  Praetorian 
Guard,  but  certainly,  as  long  as  Burrhus  lives,  he  will  not  get  it. 
However,  he  is  rapacious  and  unscrupulous,  and  has  for  some 
time  been  high  in  Nero's  favour.  He  has  been  the  instigator 
of  some  of  the  most  atrocious  acts  that  have  occurred  of  late. 
He  has  an  especial  fancy  for  plundering  the  aged,  the  weak, 
and  the  unprotected ;  and,  for  all  these  reasons,  his  name  is 
now  one  of  the  terrors  of  Rome. 

"  After  Labeo  went  to  Britain,  Hegio  was  left  to  himself 
more  than  he  had  been  before,  and  went  more  extensively  into 
his  private  speculations,  making  use  of  his  master's  money  for 
this  purpose.  When  we  first  came  here,  he  was  carrying  on 
these  operations  on  a  great  scale,  and  had  large  sums  out  at 
interest.  It  was  during  the  first  period  of  our  return  that  he 
became  attached  to  Tigellinus.  He  thought  he  saw  in  him 
the  rising  favourite  of  the  day,  and  so  he  paid  his  court  to 
him. 

**  Since  the  disasters  in  Britain,  new  schemes  have  been 
started  by  him.  He  thinks  that  Labeo  may  not  return  again, 
and,  in  that  case,  the  estate  might  be  open  to  an  unscrupulous 
man,  backed  by  the  power  of  Tigellinus." 

"  But  how  could  they  do   such   a  thing  ] "  asked  Cineas. 
"The  most  unjust  act  is  usually  founded  on  some  pretext  j  but 


5* 


ISAAC. 


\    t 


Labeo  has  never  given  any  cause  even  for  jealousy.     He  is  not 
powerful  enough  for  this." 

"  Nothing  can  secure  a  man  from  vhe  power  of  the  Emperor, 
If  Labeo  were  now  here  in  Rome,  and  Hegio  had  secured  the 
co-operation  of  Tigellinus,  there  would  be  nothing  to  prevent 
his  success.  The  thing  has  often  been  done.  Tigellinus  ob- 
tains the  careless  assent  of  Nero.  An  officer  from  the  court 
then  waits  on  Labeo,  and  advises  him  to  put  an  end  to  his  life. 
He  obeys,  in  order  to  save  himself  from  a  worse  fate.  He  falls 
on  his  sword.  His  family  are  driven  off  to  ruin  and  starvation. 
The  informer  divides  the  estate  with  Tigellinus,  and  exults  in 
the  misery  of  his  victims.     Such  things  are  done  every  day." 

A  cold  shudder  ran  through  Cineas,  as  he  thought  of  t'  o  pos- 
sibility of  this.  There  was  indeed  danger.  The  name  of 
Tigellinus,  he  well  knew,  was  surrounded  with  associations  of 
horror,  and  few  were  safe  from  him. 

"  All  this  I  know,"  said  Isaac ;  "  but  I  do  not  know  what 
particular  way  of  action  Hegio  has  decided  on.  Perhaps  he 
will  defer  it  until  he  is  certain  of  Labeo's  death,  and  then  he 
and  his  patron  can  seize  it  as  guardians.  This,  I  think,  is  his 
present  intention.  But  I  believe  that  if  news  came  to-day  that 
Suetonius  was  lost,  and  Labeo  dead,  the  estate  would  be  seized 
at  once,  and  my  dear  mistress  and  her  child  driven  away  to 
starve. 

*'  On  the  other  hand,"  said  Isaac,  "  there  is  much  to  deter 
even  Tigellinus  from  such  a  course.  Burrhus  is  yet  chief  in 
rank,  and  high  in  power.  After  all,  he  is  more  than  a  match 
for  Tigellinus  just  yet.  I  know  that  he  is  your  intimate  friend, 
and  he  is  also  strongly  attached  to  Labeo.  Seneca,  also,  is 
another  warm  friend.  His  ancient  family;  the  Sulpicii,  of 
which  he  is  the  head ;  the  high  descent  of  your  noble  sister, 
his  wife,  who  is  known  everywhere  to  inherit  the  blood  of  the 
Megacleids  and  Heracleids ; — make  his  name  conspicuous,  and 
might  prevent  hasty  action  or  extreme  measures. 


••  Hegio  went  off  this  morning,  no  doubt  to  see  Tigellinus. 
I  don't  think  the  present  news  from  Britain  will  make  any  di." 
ference  in  their  present  action.     They  will  wait. 

"  As  to  the  money  of  the  estate,  Hegio  has  it  all.  He  gives 
about  one-half  to  the  support  of  the  family,  and  uses  the  rest  to 
speculate.  I  have  proofs,  which  I  can  show  you.  One  of  the 
slaves  of  the  estate  is  his  accountant.  He  is  a  Jew,  and  hates 
Hegio.  I  had  little  difficulty  in  inducing  him  to  let  me  see  the 
accounts,  and  I  am  even  now  engaged  every  day  in  examining 
them." 

"  How  can  you  manage  that  ? " 

**  This  accountant  brings  them  to  me.  '^vhenever  he  knows 
that  Hegio  has  gone  to  Rome.  We  then  examine  them.  It 
will  take  two  or  three  months  to  finish  the  work.  I  have  dis- 
covered enormous  frauds,  and  can  show  you  the  proofs  at  any 
time.  Circumstances  have  very  greatly  favoured  me,  and 
Hegio  knows  so  little  about  it,  that  he  never  dreams  that  I  am 
anything  more  than  a  harmless  librarian,  all  taken  up  with  my 
books." 

Cineas  expressed  in  the  strongest  language  his  lively  sense  of 
the  services  of  Isaac ;  urged  him  to  go  on  with  his  investi- 
gations, and  said  that  in  the  meantime  he  would  consider  what 
might  be  the  best  mode  of  dealing  vnth  so  dangerous  a  villain. 
Then,  full  of  thought,  and  with  no  little  anxiety,  he  'ook  his 
departure. 


:ii,  of 


i 

■l   i 

I  I 


H 


IV. 

C^e  §0S  anb  ^is  |lurs«. 

'lEN  Cineas  joined  his  sister,  he  found  her  with  the 
family  in  the  Peristylium,  a  noble  hall  surrounded 
by  pillars,  with  an  opening  in  tlie  roof.  Her 
mother-in-law,  Sulpicia,  was  there ;  her  son,  Marcus, 
was  by  her  side,  and  the  nurse  was  seated  not  far  away.  Cineas 
was  again  struck  by  her  strange  aspect,  which  evinced  so  much 
suffering  and  patient  endurance. 

As  he  entered,  Sulpicia  was  trying  to  comfort  Helena  in  her 
own  way.  She  was  an  elderly  lady,  of  what  we  might  call  the 
true  Roman  style  :  a  grave  and  noble  countenance,  a  dignified 
manner,  and  a  mien  which  evinced  considerable  hauteur.  She 
was  one  who  could  never  forget  that  she  belonged  to  the  Sul- 
pician  gens. 

"  If  you  were  a  Roman,  my  daughter,"  she  said,  as  kindly  as 
she  could,  "  you  would  show  more  firmness." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  Roman,"  said  Helena,  somewhat  queru- 
lously, "  and  I  cannot  forget  that  Lucius  is  in  danger." 

"  Danger ! "  rejoined  Sulpicia,  with  contempt.  "  What 
danger? — from  those  savage  Britons?  And  what,  pray,  can 
they  do  against  a  Roman  army  1" 

"  Have  they  not  already  done  too  much  1"  said  Helena ;  and 
she  clasped  her  boy  still  more  closely  to  her,  expressing  by  that 
act  her  secret  thought,  that  he  alone  was  now  left  to  her. 

"  My  son's  wife,"  said  Sulpicia,  in  accents  of  grave  reproof, 


THE  BOY  AND  HIS  NURSE. 


•'should  learn  to  have  more  confidence  in  Roman  soldiers. 
These  Britons  have  gained  some  advantages  by  a  sudden  out- 
break ;  but  they  have  yet  to  meet  Suetonius." 

"London,  Verulam,  Camulodune!"  sighed  Helena;  and,  as 
she  spoke,  she  burst  into  tears ;  for  the  horrible  spectacle  of 
barbaric  vengeance  on  those  well-known  places  rose  plainly 
and  vividly  before  her.  She  had  known  them  well.  She  had 
lived  for  a  time  in  each,  and  could  realize  to  the  fullest  extent 
the  horror  of  their  fate. 

"  It  was  only  because  they  took  the  garrisons  by  surprise," 
said  Sulpicia,  with  some  severity.  "  Of  course,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, even  Roman  soldiers  may  be  overcome.  But  the 
strength  of  the  Roman  armies  is  with  Suetonius ;  and,  when  he 
comes  back,  he  will  show  them  what  vengeance  is.  The  next 
news  that  we  receive  will  be  that  he  has  returned  and  punished 
those  wretched  rebels  as  they  deserve." 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,"  sighed  Helena,  "  that  those  wretched 
rebels  have  some  cause  for  their  outbreak.  The  wrongs  of 
Boadicea." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it ;  it  is  all  their  lies.  The  Roman 
has  always  been  generous  to  an  enemy.  Of  course,  if  this 
miserable  woman  wanted  to  get  up  a  rebellion,  she  could  easily 
invent  excuses." 

"  Would  they  have  been  so  ferocious  and  implacable  if  they 
had  no  cause?" 

"  Of  course  they  would,"  said  Sulpicia,  in  a  ton.»  that  put 
denial  aside.  "  Of  course  they  would.  It  is  the  nature  of  the 
barbarian  to  rebel.  And  this  shows  the  necessity  of  severe 
measures.  You  cannot  have  security  among  wretches  like  these 
without  strong  repression  and  eternal  vigilance.  When  their 
armies  are  broken  up  again,  they  will  receive  a  lesson,  I  hope, 
which  they  will  not  soon  forget." 

"  Their  armies  are  so  large,  and  they  are  so  fierce  and  so 
brave !"  said  Helena. 


'W 


s« 


T/f£  BOY  AND  HIS  NURSE. 


"  And  pray^  what  does  that  matter  ?  A  Roman  army  never 
considers  mere  numbers  in  dealing  with  barbarians.  Our 
soldiers  can  easily  destroy  them ;  and,  in  fact,  their  numbers 
will  only  make  their  destruction  more  certain  and  more  ex- 
tensive." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  not  your  confidence,"  said  Helena. 
"  Great  disasters  have  sometimes  happened  to  Roman  armies. 
Think  of  Carbo,  Cassius,  Aurelius,  Caepio,  and  Manlius,  all  of 
whom  were  defeated  or  taken  prisoners  in  the  wars  with  the 
Germans.  Above  all,  think  of  Varus  and  his  three  legions, 
miserably  destroyed." 

"  You  have  a  good  memory  for  disasters,  my  daughter,"  said 
Sulpicia,  coldly.  "  I,  for  my  part,  prefer  to  think  of  our  con- 
quests. Are  not  these  Germans  in  subjection,  or  at  least  in 
awe  1  Have  not  the  Britons  been  conquered  ?  All  our  disasters 
are  owing  to  the  rashness  of  the  generals,  who  would  not  under- 
stand the  barbarian  mode  of  fighting.  Let  a  careful  general  go 
against  them,  and  what  chance  have  they  ?" 

"  After  all,"  said  Helena,  determined  to  look  on  the  dark 
side,  "  even  our  best  generals  have  not  done  much.  Even 
Julius,  when  he  went  to  Britain,  could  not  conquer  it.  He 
made  it  known  to  the  Romans,  he  did  not  place  it  under  their 
power." 

"  Why,  how  unreasonable  you  are,"  said  Sulpicia,  impatiently. 
"  Whether  he  conquered  or  not  makes  no  difference.  If  he 
had  chosen,  he  could  easily  have  done  so.  Other  plans  called 
him  away.  Britain  was  conquered  by  inferior  men,  very  easily; 
and  this  revolt  will  soon  be  forgotten.  Suetonius  is  a 
very  different  general  from  the  others,  and  he  has  a  large 
army.'" 

"  But  think  what  vast  multitudes  of  the  Britons  there  are," 
pursued  Helena.  "  How  fierce,  and  how  desperate.  I  have 
heard  you  tell  of  their  famous  chief  Caractacus — and  you  said 
that  all  Rome  admired  him — and  Claudius  let  him  go.     If 


THE  BOY  AND  HIS  NURSE, 


%1 


they  have  such  men  now,  I  fear  this  rebellion  will  be  worse 
than  you  think  it." 

"  You  are  a  child,  my  daughter,  and  you  do  not  know  the 
Roman  nature.  This  rebellion  must  be  put  down.  Boadicea 
and  all  her  followers  must  suffer  punishment  for  their  crimes. 
Perhaps  by  this  time  Suetonius  has  already  done  the  work,  and 
given  her  what  her  crimes  deserve.  The  mode  in  which  these 
barbarians  have  gone  to  work,  shows  their  true  character,  too. 
They  took  advantage  of  the  absence  of  the  legions  to  rise. 
They  make  an  attack,  and  carry  all  before  them.  Under  such 
circumstances  they  are  often  dangerous  j  but  when  it  comes  to 
a  fair  field  of  battle,  then  they  are  nothing.  A  small  Roman 
army  of  one  or  two  legions  is  more  than  a  match  for  their 
utmost  force.  But  if  you  will  persist  in  thinking  of  the  worst, 
what  can  I  do  or  what  can  I  say  to  comfort  youl" 

"  Nothing — nothing.  You  are  dear  and  kind,  and  I  am  weak 
and  despondent.    If  I  had  your  firmness,  I  would  think  like  you." 

"  I  am  a  Roman  matron,"  said  Sulpicia,  proudly. 

"  And  I  am  a  Greek,"  said  Helena. 

•*  But  you  must  learn  to  be  a  Roman,  dearest,"  said  Sulpicia, 
kindly ;  and  drawing  near  to  Helena,  she  kissed  her,  and  added, 
"  Come,  my  daughter,  hope  for  the  best ;  at  least,  show  more 
firmness,  and  do  not  despond.  Trust  in  the  gods.  They  have 
always  favoured  the  arms  of  Rome." 

Again  she  kissed  Helena,  and,  after  pressing  her  hand,  she 
retired  from  the  apartment.  Helena  leaned  her  head  upon  her 
hand,  and,  unable  to  repress  her  feelings,  she  turned  her  face 
away  and  wept. 

Her  little  boy  crawled  nearer  to  his  mother,  and  twined  his 
arms  about  her.  For  some  moments  the  two  sat  in  this  posi- 
tion. As  for  Cineas,  he  did  not  know  what  to  say.  Full  of 
sympathy  for  his  sister,  he  yet  was  at  a  loss  how  to  administer 
comfort  in  her  deep  dejection.  So  he  sat  in  silence,  waiting  for 
a  favourable  opportunity. 


^li 


i  il 


■  < 


S8 


TJIE  BOY  AND  HIS  NCSE. 


Helena  at  length,  by  a  strong  effort,  mastered  her  grief,  and, 
turning  round  again,,  she  embraced  her  boy,  and  regarded  him 
with  a  long  and  loving  glance. 

"  My  mother  dearest,"  said  the  child,  "  why  do  you  weep  sol 
Do  not  fear  about  father.     God  will  take  care  of  him." 

The  little  boy  looked  at  her  with  an  earnest  and  grave  ex- 
pression on  his  childish  face.  His  mother  kissed  him,  and 
stroked  his  head  fondly. 

"  Darling,"  she  said,  "  what  do  you  know  about  God  1" 

"  Oh,  I  k  low,"  said  Marcus,  "  how  he  takes  care  of  all  things. 
He  is  our  Father,  and  loves  us." 

"Loves  us  !"  Helena  took  up  the  words  and  turned  them 
in  her  heart.  "  Dear  boy,  you  have  stranpe  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings sometimes,"  she  said,  after  a  pause. 

Cineas,  too,  felt  the  deep  meaning  of  the  words.  He  had 
never  learned  this  from  Plato.  This  child  had  already  uttered 
in  his  hearing  words  that  pierced  his  soul  and  thrilled  him,  so 
he  now  looked  at  the  mother  and  son,  wondering  what  new 
thing  would  be  spoken. 

"  I  pray  to  God  for  my  dearest  father,"  said  Marcus,  in  a 
solemn  tone,  which  sounded  strangely  in  one  so  young.  "  I 
pray,  and  God  hears  me.  And  I  think  my  dearest  father  will 
come  back  again  from  the  wars.  And  when  I  think  of  him  I 
do  not  weep,  but  feel  glad." 

"  And  do  you  pray  to  the  Great  God — you,  a  little  child  V* 
said  Helena. 

'*  Yes  j  for  he  has  said  that  all  little  children  might  come  to 
him." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Helena,  with  some 
bewilderment.  "  I  never  knew  that  he  had  said  anything. 
When  did  he  say  this  ]" 

Marcus  looked  at  her  with  a  kind  of  reproachful  surprise. 

•*  What !  don't  you  know  ]"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "  I  know 
the  very  words  he  said,  and  I  love  them.     But  you  do  know 


THE  BOY  AND  HIS  NURSE. 


59 


some 
ything. 


theint"  he  added,  with  a  sudden  idea  that  his  mother  was 
jesting. 

"  Not  I,  dear  boy ;  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean.  You 
are  so  strange;"  and  Helena  looked  towards  Cineas,  whose 
eyes  she  encountered,  and  noticed  his  fixed  attention  to  the 
scene. 

"  I  know  the  words,"  said  Marcus,  "  and  I  love  them.  That 
is  why  I  pray.  Because  He  said  little  children  might  pray. 
He  said,  '  Let  the  little  children  come  to  me,  and  forbid  them 
not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven ;'  and  haven't  you 
heard  this  before  f 

Helena  did  not  answer.  Cineas  heard  these  words  with  the 
same  surprise  which  he  had  felt  before.  The  whole  air  of  the 
child  was  that  of  one  who  knew  perfectly  well  what  he  was 
talking  about  There  was  no  hesitation  in  his  manner,  or  in- 
coherency. 

"When  did  he  say  that]"  said  Helena,  at  last.  "  I  do  not 
understand  you." 

"Why,  when  he  was  here." 

"Herel" 

"Yes,  in  the  world.  When  he  left  heaven  and  was  living 
in  the  world." 

"When  he  left  heaven — and  was  living  in  the  world," 
repeated  Helena.  "  The  fables  of  the  gods  tell  no  such  story 
as  this.  Most  of  them,  according  to  these  fables,  spent  different 
periods  among  men,  but  men  never  were  any  the  better  for 
them." 

"  Oh,  but  this  is  the  Great  God,  and  our  Father,"  said 
Marcus,  earnestly.  "  He  loved  us  and  pitied  us,  and  so  he 
came  and  lived  here  to  bless  us.  And  that  was  when  some 
little  children  came  to  him.  And  they  wanted  to  push  the 
little  children  away.  But  he  said  *  Let  them  come,  and  forbid 
them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.'" 

"  What  fable  can  he  possibly  have  heard]"  asked  Cineas. 


6o 


THE  BOY  AND  HIS  NURSE. 


Hi    :^i' 


^  li 


** 


"Some  one  which  has  been  purified  and  changed  in  his 
own  sweet  thoughts,"  said  Helena,  kissing  her  boy  fondly,  and  v 
pressing  him  to  her. 

"  And  did  he  say  you  might  pray  to  him  V 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Marcus,  eagerly.  "  He  said,  to  ask  what  we 
wanted,  and  he  would  give  it  to  us ;  and  he  said,  if  we  loved 
him  we  would  go  to  heaven." 

Love  again — to  love  him.  Ah,  sweet  childish  thouc;ht.  All 
is  summed  up  in  love  or  hate.  To  love  God.  Perhaps  this 
seems  easy  to  a  child ;  but  to  a  man  it  is  different.  Thus 
thought  Cineas,  as  he  listened,  and  thought  still  that  Marcus 
had  heard  some  version  of  the  many  fables  about  Jupiter. 
Yet  he  wondered  that  he  had  never  heard  anything  like 
this.  » 

While  this  conversation  had  been  going  on,  the  nurse  had 
not  appeared  to  listen.  With  her  sad  but  serene  face  she  sat 
at  a  distance  from  the  family  group,  her  hands  busied  at  some 
embroidery,  and  her  eyes  apparently  intent  on  this.  Yet  she 
had  noted  all,  and  heard  all. 

"  But,  mother  dearest,"  said  Marcus,  caressing  her,  "  how 
is  it  that  you  have  not  heard  of  this  sweet  thought  that  God 
loves  you  V* 

"  God  loves  me  1"  murmured  Helena,  in  a  strange,  slow 
voice,  looking  with  deep  meaning  at  Cineas. 

"  Don't  you  know  this  ?  You  speak  so  strangely,"  said 
Marcus,  with  the  persistency  of  a  child. 

"  And  how  do  you  know  it  1"  asked  his  mother. 

"  Oh,  I  have  known  it  always — that  is,  ever  since  nurse  has 
been  here.  And  so  I  come  to  him,  and  I  pray  to  him,  and 
when  I  look  at  the  bright  blue  sky,  I  often  think  I  see  the 
kingdom  of  heaven,  and  hosts  of  little  children  around  the 
throne  of  God." 

"  That  would  be  a  purer  heaven  than  the  01yr..pian  one,  at 
any  rate,"  muttered  Cineas. 


THE  BOY  AND  HIS  NURSE. 


6l 


ge, 

slow 

yr 

said 

irse 

has 

im, 

and 

see 

the 

nd 

the 

"  And  when  I  feel  sad,  I  go  and  pray  to  him,  and  he  takes 
all  my  sadness  away." 

"Oh,  my  sweetest  one,  your  words  go  through  my  heart 
What  words  are  these  ?  Where  did  you  learn  all  this  ?  Tell 
me  more  that  you  know  !" 

Helena  spoke  in  earnest,  longing  tones.  The  nurse  lifted 
her  head  with  a  quick  movement,  but  instantly  lowered  it,  and 
two  large  tears  fell  upon  the  work  bf  fore  her. 

Marcus  lOoked  in  surprise  at  his  mother. 

"  Why,  haven't  you  heard  how  he  hears  all  our  prayers,  and 
dries  all  our  tears  1  I  will  tell  you  what  he  said,  and  what 
I  love  as  much  as  those  other  words  that  I  told  you  of." 

"What  are  they?" 

"  He  said,  *  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.'  His  words  are  very  sweet, 
mother  dearest." 

"  *  Come  unto  me  ! ' "  repeated  Helena.  "  What  things  are 
these  1  Marcus,  where  did  you  learn  all  this  ? — that  God  can 
love  J  that  he  says,  *  Come  unto  me ;'  and  receives  even  little 
children.  This  is  neither  the  fables  of  the  vulgar  nor  philo- 
sophy. Is  it  all  your  own,  my  dearest?  Is  it  your  own 
thoughts?    But  tell  me  those  words  again." 

Again  Marcus  repeated  those  words  of  heavenly  sweetness, 
and  his  mother  listened  with  the  rapt  attention  of  one  who 
wished  to  retain  them  in  memory  for  ever. 

The  nurse  still  plied  her  needle,  and  seemed  absorbed  in  her 
work.     Cineas  listened  as  eagerly  as  Helena. 

"  If  we  could  only  take  that  as  the  real  voice  of  our  Crea- 
tor," he  said  at  last,  in  a  solemn  voice,  "  and  all  that  this  dear 
boy  has  been  telling  us,  as  his  words,  what  comfort  there  would 
be  for  you  and  me  !  And  what  comfort  this  would  have  Lccn 
to  one  whose  fate  has  often  been  in  my  thoughts  !  Did  I  ever 
tell  you  about  a  certain  strange  disciple  of  Theophiius,  named 
Cleon,  at  least  that  was   the  name  by  which  he  was  known 


Ill 


62 


THE  BOY  AND  HIS.  NURSE. 


.    *; 


i   I 


>!    i 


( 


!       I, 


in  Athens.  He  came  to  the  city  a  year  or  two  after  you: 
departure,  from  a  town  in  Crete,  and  became  distinguished 
among  the  worst  young  men  of  the  city  for  his  profligacy.  One 
day  Theophilus  was  lecturing,  and  Cleon,  with  a  band  of  com- 
panions, same  in.  They  seemed  to  be  fresh  from  a  carouse, 
although  it  was  early  in  the  day.  They  were  anointed,  and 
garlands  were  on  their  heads,  and  the  fumes  of  wine  hung 
about  them.  Theophilus  was  discoursing  on  his  favourite 
theme,  immortality.  He  spoke  of  the  endless  life  of  the  soul 
hereafter,  the  condition  of  the  virtuous  and  of  the  vicious  man. 
He  showed  that  the  man  who  loved  virtue  was  most  like  God, 
and  must  needs  become  more  like  him  as  ages  passed  away ; 
while,  on  the  other  hapd,  the  vicious  and  the  impure  must  go 
and  consort  with  others  like  themselves.  All  this  was  unfolded 
with  that  sublime  enthusiasm  which  made  our  glorious  teacher 
so  dear  to  all  his  disciples,  and  impressed  his  doctrines  so 
deeply  on  our  hearts. 

"The  revellers  listened  with  attention,  and  Cleon,  to  our 
surprise,  seemed  deeply  moved.  After  the  lecture  was  over, 
his  companions  departed,  but  he  remained  behind.  He  asked 
Theophilus,  with  the  deepest  respect,  if  such  a  one  as  he  could 
be  admitted  as  one  of  his  disciples.  Theophilus  gave  him  a 
cordial  invitation.  He  then  joined  us,  and  came  day  after  day 
for  more  than  two  years. 

"  He  became  a  strange,  silent  man.  He  shunned  the  society 
of  all  the  other  disciples,  but  appeared  eager  to  be  with  the 
master.  Some  great  load  was  on  his  mind.  As  I  used  to  be 
much  with  the  master,  I  often  was  present  ^t  times  when  Cleon 
was  asking  some  of  his  peculiar  questions. 

"  The  master's  great  aim  was  to  teach  that  God  was  holy 
and  just,  and  that  virtui  led  to  immortal  happiness.  Cleon's 
great  desire  was  to  find  out  how  a  vicious  man  might  become 
virtuous,  and  attain  to  this  immortality.  He  looked  back  upon 
a  life  from  which  he  now  turned  with  loathing ;  but  the  recol- 


THE  BOY  AND  HIS  NURSE. 


63 


lection  of  that  former  life  filled  him  with  remorse.  His  great 
fear  was  that  for  some  horrible  deed,  which  he  would  never 
name,  vengeance  wouM  be  wrought  on  him. 

"  The  master  tried  to  persuade  him,  that,  since  he  had  now 
turned  from  this  life,  and  was  striving  after  virtue,  it  was  as 
much  as  he  could  do.     But  Cleon  was  not  satisfied  with  this. 

"  *  I  have  remorse !  remorse  I '  he  said,  once,  in  piercing 
tones  \  '  it  is  killing  me.  Your  lofty  teachings  may  do  for  the 
virtuous  man,  who  has  never  fallen.  But  when  one  has  fallen 
as  low  as  I,  it  is  impiCiS  to  think  of  God.' 

"  *  God  will  hear  you  if  you  call.' 

"  '  No,'  said  Cleon  ;  '  I  have  tried.  But  it  is  impiety  to  call 
on  him.  Could  I  tell  you  that  which  I  have  done,  you  your- 
self would  see  that  there  is  nothmg  for  me  but  vengeance. 
Oh,  how  gladly  would  I  do  anything  to  rid  myself  of  this 
remorse !  How  I  wish  I  could  have  the  lot  of  CEdipus,  to 
whom,  according  to  the  legend,  the  fates  had  pointed  out  the 
place  where  he  might  at  last  find  peace.  I  would  go  to  the 
presence  of  the  awful  goddesses,  and  wait  for  the  end,  even  if 
it  were  the  dread  summons  from  the  under-world.' 

"  This  was  his  trouble — remorse  for  some  dark  offence 
which  he  would  not  name,  and  utter  hopelessness  of  escape 
from  his  suffering  of  mind. 

"  *  I  feel,'  said  he  on  one  occasion,  *  that  there  is  no  hope. 
Immortality  is  only  a  curse  to  me.  To  live  for  ever  is  to  suffer 
for  ever.  The  thought  of  God  is  worst  of  all.  For  what  am  I  % 
I  pray  to  him  ?  Impossible.  And  yet  Ae  alone  could  answer 
the  dread  questions  of  my  mind.  He  alone  could  forgive. 
Oh,  if  I  could  but  go  to  him  /  But  he  is  to  me  more  terrible 
than  the  Implacable  Furies.' 

"  At  last  we  saw  the  end  of  him.  He  came  to  the  master, 
one  day,  and  told  him  that  he  should  die  if  he  remained  in 
Athens.  He  would  try  an  active  life.  He  would  enter  thp 
Roman  army.     Perhaps  a  life  of  campaigns  would  distract  his 


"  II 

,1; 


«4 


THE  BOY  AND  HIS  NURSE, 


thoughts,  and  lessen  his  remorse.  And  so  he  went.  The 
master  could  do  nothing  for  him.  He  felt  this  most  keenly. 
Melancholy  came  over  him.  His  old  confidence  was  gone. 
He  saw  new  problems  rising  before  hin«,  of  which  he  hau  not 
thought  before,  and  whi  h  he  was  utterly  unable  to  solve." 

"  And  did  Cleon  never  tell  his  crime  1"  asked  Helena,  who 
had  listened  with  the  deepest  interest  to  this  story. 
"  He  did,"  responded  Cineas ;  "  and  also  his  true  name." 

Had  Cineas  looked  at  the  nurse,  at  this  moment,  he  would 
have  been  astonished  at  the  change  that  had  come  over  her. 
During  the  beginning  of  his  narrative  she  had  calmly  pro- 
ceeded with  her  embroidery ;  but  at  length  she  dropped  it,  and 
looked  earnestly  at  him.  Overpowering  emotion  seemed  to 
subdue  all  her  self-control.  Her  face,  always  pale,  now  be- 
came livid.  Her  limbs  grew  rigid ;  and  clasping  her  hands 
tightly,  she  stared  fixedly  at  the  speaker.  She  now  awaited  in 
breathless  suspense  the  conclusion.  The  others  did  not  see 
her,  and  Cineas  sat  with  his  eyes  pensively  fixed  on  the  floor. 

"  Yes,  he  told  Theophilus  all,"  pursued  Cineas.  •*  He  be- 
longed, as  I  have  said,  to  Crete.  He  had  been  well  brought 
up,  but  in  early  youth  had  fallen  into  vice.  He  squandered 
his  father's  property  and  broke  his  heart.  He  then  took  to 
gambling ;  and  finally,  in  a  moment  of  atrocious  hard-hearted- 
ness,  he  carried  away  his  own  mother  to  Cyrene,  and  sold  her 
as  a  slave." 

Helena's  heart  grew  cold  within  her.  But  another  thing 
now  diverted  her  thoughts.  It  was  the  nurse.  Rising  from 
her  seat,  she  tottered,  rather  than  walked,  over  to  Cineas  ;  and, 
leaning  heavily  on  his  shoulders,  with  a  fearful,  wild  glance, 
gasped  out, — 

"  His  name — his  real  name  1" 

Cineas  looked  up  and  shuddered.  A  thought  came  to  him 
of  all  the  bitter  truth.  But  it  was  too  late  now.  He  groaned 
and  answered, — 


THE  BOY  AND  HIS  NURSE, 


6$ 


"  Philo  of  Crete." 

The  nurse  gave  a  heavy  gasp,  and  sank  to  the  floor.  Helena 
shrieked,  and  Marcus,  springing  toward  the  nurse,  flung  him- 
seh  upon  the  prostrate  form,  uttering  wild  lamentations. 

"Alas!"  cried  Cineas,  "what  have  I  done?  Wretch  that  I 
am!" 

"  You  !    What  have  you  done  1    What  is  it  all  1" 

"  Take  her  to  her  room.  And  oh,  Helena,  be  tender  to  her. 
She  may  revive ;  she  may  be  restored.  Be  loving  and  very 
tender  to  her,  for  she  was  his  mother  /"  ^  , 


(188 


t 


.  •  I 


I    I  I 

/ 


V. 


fl\t  gttmsfu  of  Casar. 


|HE  nurse  did  not  speedily  recover.  The  shock  had 
been  both  sudden  and  sharp,  and  her  aged  frame 
sunk  beneath  it.  Yet  Helena  surrounded  her  with 
all  the  cab  which  could  be  bestowed,  and  showed 
her  as  much  attention  as  though  she  were  her  own  mother. 
That  she  was  a  slave  made  no  difference  to  the  generous- 
hearted  lady. 

The  position  of  the  Roman  slave  was  both  better  and  worse 
than  now.  There  was  no  bar  of  colour  between  him  and  his 
master.  He  was  often,  like  Isaac,  a  man  of  wide  acquire- 
ments and  brilliant  talents,  far  surpassing  his  master  in  every 
intellectual  exercise.  The  slave  was  often  of  high  culture  and 
most  polished  manners.  His  duties  were  as  wide  as  his 
abilities,  and  the  care  of  large  estates  was  often  left  in  his 
hands.  There  was  nothing  to  make  him  miserable  but  the 
absence  of  liberty,  and  this  he  could  obtain  by  purchase.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  greatest  ill-treatment  was  allowed.  Nothing 
stood  between  the  wretched  slave  and  the  most  brutal  master. 
The  most  atrocious  cruelty  was  common,  and  the  sight  of 
slaves  hanging  on  the  cross,  or  dying  in  agony  of  other  kinds, 
was  not  unfrequent.  Their  numbers  were  vast,  and  it  has  been 
estimated  that  the  entire  slave  population  of  the  Roman  v^orld 
equalled  the  free  population,  which  would  amount  to  sixty 
millions  of  souls. 


Hi  |l 

1 

'i  i  1 

IlL 

! 

THE  MINISTER  OF  C^SAR. 


•7 


For  many  weeks  the  poor  nurse  lay  hovering  between  li/c 
and  death.  Marcus  was  inconsolable,  and  in  his  lamentations 
over  her  he  showed  the  source  whence  he  had  obtained  those 
ideas  which  seemed  so  new  and  strange  to  Helena  and  Cineas. 

"  Ah,  nurse,  my  dearest,"  he  would  exclaim,  as  he  tenderly 
stroked  her  poor  thin  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  "my 
dearest,  who  will  now  tell  me  of  God  and  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  and  the  sweet  stories  that  I  learned  from  you  1  And 
she  does  not  speak  a  word,  though  perhaps  she  nay  be  leaving 
me  for  ever.     Will  she  never  speak  again,  dear  niolher?" 

"  Was  it  from  her,  Marcus,  that  you  learned  those  beautiful 
words  which  you  have  told  me?"  asked  Helena,  and  she 
looked  with  a  newer  and  deeper  interest  upon  that  pale  and 
mournful  face,  whose  expression  was  so  familiar  to  >  er. 
"From  her  1"      c*v 

"  Yes,  all ;  and  far  more  ^han  I  could  tell  you.  She  talks  so 
beautifully,  while  I  hear  her,  I  wish  to  be  away  in  the  bright 
world  where  he  went." 

"  He  1  who  r  ■$, 

"  The  Saviour." 

"  What  Saviour  1    I  don't  understand." 

"  Why,  the  Saviour  is  the  name  she  gives  to  the  dear  God  to 
whom  she  prays,  for  he  loved  us,  and  saved  us.  But  you  know 
this,  don't  you?" 

Helena  was  silent,  and  regarded  the  nurse  musingly.  She 
thought  that  perhaps  there  she  might  find  something  better 
for  her  at  least  than  the  philosophy  of  Cineas.  Perhaps  she 
could  learn  the  secret  source  of  that  calm  resignation  and  holy 
sweetness  which  marked  all  her  actions  and  words. 

It  was  a  kind  of  stupor  which  now  oppressed  her.  Isaac, 
who  was  not  only  the  librarian,  but  the  physician  of  this  house- 
hold, held  out  hopes  of  her  recovery,  but  said  that  it  would  be 
long  before  she  would  regain  her  former  strength.  Like  many 
of  his  countrymen,  he  was  skilful  in  the  healing  art,  as  far  as  it 


1 

■ 

i 

i    ' 

1 

1 

1 

ill! 

I    1 

•  li'i  "  tj 

:(l     ■       !| 

^            ■; 

i 

ll!i    ,  : 


i'     'i 


¥     i     :> 


68 


T//E  MINISTER  OF  C^SAR. 


was  known  at  the  time.  He  was  deeply  read  in  all  the  writ- 
ings of  the  physicians,  and  had  studied  the  character  and  uses 
of  many  herbs. 

The  nurse  for  a  long  time  recognized  no  one.  Her  mind 
wandered  incessantly.  The  secret  thoughts  of  her  heart  were 
murmured  out  in  delirium,  and  Helena  heard  much  of  that  deep 
sorrow  which  had  been  kept  hidden  in  her  breast  for  years. 

In  her  wandering  thoughts  she  spoke  much  of  her  home  in 
Crete,  and  named  cities  there  familiar  to  Helena.  She  often 
spoke  of  her  son,  and  seemed  to  believe  herself  once  more  hold- 
ing him  in  her  arms,  a  little  boy.  At  times  outbreaks  of  feeling 
would  occur,  and  she  would  murmur  words  of  agony.  Some- 
times for  hours  she  would  utter  the  words,  "  Betrayed  !  betrayed ! 
and  by  ^m/"  > 

After  a  time  calmness  succeeded,  and  her  wandering  thoughts 
turned  to  other  things.  Words  of  broken  prayer — to  one  whom 
she  addressed  as  her  Saviour — began  to  be  more  frequent,  inter- 
mingled with  many  things  which  Helena  could  not  understand. 

She  spoke  of  her  Saviour  as  living  a  life  of  suffering ;  of  his 
agony  and  grief.  She  said  that  he,  too,  was  betrayed,  and  by 
his  friend. 

"  What  is  all  this  ] "  she  asked  Marcus. 

And  Marcus  told  her  a  wonderful  story.  It  was  incoherent 
and  unfinished,  as  though  he  knew  not  all,  but  it  related  the 
sufferings  of  One  whom  Marcus  called  the  God  or  Saviour  of 
his  prayers. 

All  this  awakened  strange  hopes  within  Helena.  She  longed 
to  know  all  this  secret.  She  half  felt  that  here  there  was  an 
answer  to  her  own  earnest  desires. 

At  last,  one  day  when  Isaac  was  present,  the  nurse  began  her 
usual  prayers,  and  this  time  repeated  over  and  over  again  one 
name  which  produced  a  remarkable  effect  on  one,  at  least,  of 
the  listeners. 

It  was  the  x\zxcit  Jesus  Christ. 


I 


THE  MINISTER  OF  CyESAR. 


69 


It  was  the  Jew  upon  whom  this  remarkable  effect  was  pro- 
duced. His  countenance  grew  dark,  and  his  eyes  flashed  fire. 
Struggling  for  a  long  time  with  some  strong  internal  emotion, 
he  at  length  muttered,  in  words  of  forced  calmness, — 

"  She  is  one  of  these  Christians."  ; 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  bitter  contempt  of  his  words. 

"  Christians  r'  said  Helena;  *'  I  have  heard  much  about  them, 
and  against  them.  What  are  theyl  Why  do  you  feel  so 
strongly  about  this  ] "  she  added,  noticing  that  Isaac  was  still 
overcome  by  emotion.  "  ' 

Isaac  loved  Helena  with  deep  affection  and  reverence.  He 
felt  ashamed  of  exhibiting  his  wild  excitement  before  her,  and 
sought  to  resume  his  usual  self-control. 

'*  It  is  nothing,"  said  he.  "  Our  people  have  suffered  much 
through  these  Christians,  and  I  have  an  old  national  prejudice." 

"  You  hate  them  ] " 

*'  Worse  than  death,"  exclaimed  Isaac,  for  an  instant  forget- 
ting himself;  but  in  a  moment  he  recollected  himself  and  said, 
"  Pardon  me ;  but  something  of  my  old  national  feeling  will  at 
times  break  out." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  said  anything  to  excite  it,"  said  Helena, 
rather  compassionately.  **  But  at  any  rate  you  will  not  include 
her  in  your  hate.  She  is  my  truest  and  most  devoted  com- 
panion." 

"  For  your  sake,"  said  Isaac,  "  I  would  sacrifice  any  hate. 
But  apart  from  that  you  need  have  no  fear.  When  I  act  as  a 
physician  I  never  think  of  personal  feeling.  My  science  is  at 
the  disposal  of  those  on  whom  it  is  exercised,  and  if  I  paid  one 
visit  to  my  worst  enemy,  I  would  try  my  best,  solely  on  account 
of  my  science,  to  cure  him  again." 

Such  scenes  were  frequent  in  that  quiet  chamber,  but  Isaac 
never  again  showed  any  trace  of  feeling.  He  fell  again  into 
his  former  quiet  habit,  visited  the  patient,  directed  the  applica- 
tion of  the  remedies,  and  exerted  all  his  skill. 


';,    i' 


i    5 


'II  ;r ! 


!  i''- 

I 

t'  p 

f    "! 

lij  1 

f 

i 

:  1 

Ir 

\ 


70 


TUB  MINISTER  OF  CMSAR. 


So  the  weeks  went  on. 

During  this  sickness  of  the  nurse,  Cineas  was  fully  occupied 
with  his  own  thoughts.  He  was  often  closeted  with  Isaac,  and 
the  examination  of  the  accounts  went  on  rapidly.  Enough 
began  to  be  discovered  to  awaken  alarm,  and  show  that  their 
worst  suspicions  were  well-founded. 

One  day  Cineas  thought  of  paying  a  visit  to  Burrhus,  the  chief 
officer  of  the  Praetorians,  and  greatest  man  in  the  empire  next 
to  Nero  himself.  He  and  Seneca  had  been  the  preceptors  of 
the  emperor,  and  while  the  latter  taught  him  philosophy,  the 
former  instructed  him  in  military  science. 

The  palace  of  Burrhus  was  one  of  the  most  sumptuous  in 
Rome.  Extensive  parks  surrounded  it,  and  several  acres  of 
ground  were  covered  oVer  with  a  spacious  roofing,  supported  by 
marble  columns,  affording  a  place  of  exercise  in  wet  weather. 
The  palace  was  very  large,  and  in  the  vestibule  was  an  eques- 
trian statue  of  the  master. 

Crowds  of  clients  were  outside  waiting  in  front  of  the  steward's 
door,  to  receive  the  '*  sportula,"  or  little  basket,  containing  the 
daily  allowance  of  money  or  victuals  with  which  the  heads  of 
great  houses  furnished  their  followers.  As  Cineas  came  up  he 
noticed  some  confusion  in  the  crowd.  It  seems  that  one  of 
the  clients  had  brought  a  close  litter,  in  which  he  said  his  wife 
was.  The  steward  would  not  believe  him,  and  refused  to  give 
the  wife's  allowance  till  he  had  seen  whether  she  was  really 
inside  or  not.  In  vain  the  client  protested  that  his  wife  was 
sick,  and  asleep.  The  steward  persisted  in  opening  it,  and 
found  it  empty.  He  then,  in  great  indignation,  refused  to  give 
the  client  even  his  own  share,  and  was  driving  him  off,  amid 
the  laughter  of  the  crowd,  as  Cineas  came  up. 

On  entering  the  hall  he  found  a  large  number  awaiting  their 
turn  to  be  admitted  into  the  presence  of  the  great  man.  Cineas 
gave  a  liberal  bribe  to  one  of  the  servants,  and  told  him  to 
carry  his  name  to  his  master.    Orders  came  to  admit  him  at  once. 


THE  MINISTER  OF  C^SAR. 


71 


Cineas  went  in,  and  Burrhus  rose  with  an  expression  of  sin- 
cere pleasure  and  embraced  him.  ' 

He  was  an  elderly  man,  of  fine  military  air,  dressed  in  the 
rich  costume  of  general  of  the  haughty  Praetorian  body.  All 
other  clients  were  at  once  dismissed,  and  Cineas  was  left  alone 
with  Burrhus. 

"  What !  my  dearest  Athenian.  How  have  you  managed  to 
tear  yourself  away  from  the  Acropolis  1  Let  me  assure  you 
that  you  do  me  a  double  favour,  first  in  showing  me  yourself, 
and  then  ridding  me  of  my  clients." 

Then  followed  many  questions  as  to  his  health,  the  time  of  his 
arrival,  and  his  whereabouts.  He  gently  reproved  Cineas  for  not 
coming  before,  and  offered  to  do  anything  for  him  in  his  power. 

After  all  the  usual  preliminaries  which  attend  the  meeting  of 
two  friends,  Cineas  asked  if  there  were  any  tidings  from  Britain. 

"  No — nothing,"  said  Burrhus.  "  It  looks  dark,  but  we  all 
have  confidence  in  Suetonius.  Ah !  I  see — Labeo  is  there. 
Well,  I  believe  he  will  return  in  safety,  after  all.  With  these 
barbarians  the  fashion  is  to  make  one  great  attack,  and  then 
allow  themselves  to  be  cut  in  pieces." 

Burrhus  treated  Cineas  with  kind  familiarity.  In  his  youth 
he  himself  had  been  much  in  Athens,  where  he  had  become 
attached  to  the  father  of  Cineas,  who  was  a  man  of  enormous 
wealth,  and  lived  in  the  utmost  state  and  splendour.  Burrhus 
had  afterwards  seen  him  from  time  to  time,  and  in  later  visits 
to  Athens  he  had  manifested  a  warm  affection  for  Cineas,  then 
in  his  early  youth.  So  he  now  found  much  to  ask  about,  and 
evidently  relished,  in  the  highest  degree,  the  company  of  his 
old  friend. 

Suddenly,  while  talking  of  Labeo,  he  said, — 

"You  have  a  bad  man  out  there — a  very  bad  man — the 
steward  Hegio." 

Cineas  was  surprised  at  this. 

"  Why  ! "  said  he.     "  How  do  you  know  this  ] " 


72 


THE  MINISTER  OF  C^SAR. 


Ill  i 


\    M 


"  Oh,  I  have  my  spies  everywhere,  and  can  tell  you  all  aboui 
him.  He  uses  his  master's  money  for  speculations,  and  some 
day  it  will  all  vanish.     You  had  better  see  to  him." 

"  That  is  the  very  thing  that  I  am  now  dfing,"  said  Cineas,  and 
he  then  described  the  examination  of  the  accounts  which  was 
then  going  on. 

"  That's  right.  You  will  have  to  be  a  little  careful.  All  that 
this  shrewd  Jew  of  yours  has  told  you  is  true.  Hegio  has 
attached  himself  to  this  villain  Tigellinus." 

"  And  is  Tigellinus  on  good  terms  with  the  emperor  1 " 

"  On  the  best.  He  is  an  unprincipled  scoundrel,  and  does 
anything  to  get  into  the  emperor's  favour." 

Cineas  was  silent,  thoughts  of  what  that  emperor  was  came 
into  his  mind.  Alreadjr  Nero's  name  was  a  terror  to  the  human 
race.  The  influence  of  Burrhus  and  Seneca  had  died  out,  and 
although  they  were  still  in  favour,  yet  Nero  had  long  since  gone 
far  beyond  their  control.  The  grossest  debauchery,  the  most 
horrible  profligacy,  and  the  murder  of  some  of  the  noblest  of 
Rome,  all  these  crimes  had  been  crowned  and  perfected  by  the 
murder  of  his  mother,  and  rang  in  the  ears  of  the  world.  Still 
other  crimes  were  yet  in  the  future,  as  hideous  as  these,  and 
more  deadly.  About  such  a  ruler  it  was  not  wise  to  say  any- 
thing, and  both  Burrhus  and  Cineas,  while  talking  familiarly 
about  everything  else,  were  reserved  and  silent  on  this  one 
point. 

At  length,  after  a  silence  of  a  few  moments,  Burrhus  be- 
gan,— 

"  I  had  a  somewhat  singular  visitor  this  morning,  my  dear 
Cineas,  and  regret  that  you  did  not  come  earlier,  so  as  to  be 
present  at  our  interview." 

"  Who  was  he  % " 

"  Oh,  a  Syrian — a  Jew,  rather ;  the  great  leader  of  all  these 
Christians  that  one  hears  so  much  about  now.  His  name  is 
Paul." 


f-i! 


tttmat^tm 


THE  MINISTER  OF  CMSAR. 


73 


"Paul!"  said  Cineas,  with  an  appearance  of  the  deepest 
interest.     "  What  sort  of  a  man  is  he  ? " 

"  A  man  of  small  stature,  thin  and  meagre,  with  a  very 
remarkable  face.  A  singularly  prepossessing  man  in  his  appear- 
ance. His  eyes  are  very  piercing,  and  he  seems  to  read  your 
thoughts ;  and  there  is  a  kind  of  fervid  fanaticism  in  his  man- 
ner that  quite  impressed  me.  I  like  to  see  a  man  in  earnest 
about  something,  and  this  man  is  deeply  in  earnest.  He  told 
me  a  long  seriv^s  of  persecutions  which  he  had  endured  in  behalf 
of  his  new  doctrine,  and  seemed  perfectly  willing  to  endure  as 
much  more.  I  never  saw  a  higher  spirit  or  more  devoted 
courage  in  any  man.  What  particularly  impressed  me  was  this 
— that,  although  he  was  a  perfect  fanatic,  he  had  none  of  that 
offensive  self-assertion  which  is  almost  universal  in  men  of  that 
stamp.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  singularly  modest  and  per- 
fectly courteous.  His  manner  exhibited  the  utmost  refinement 
and  good  breeding. 

"I  opened  the  conversation  in  a  friendly  way;  and,  as  I 
took  a  liking  to  him  from  the  outset,  I  conducted  the  examina- 
tion in  a  familiar  manner,  and  by  chance  the  conversation 
turned  on  literature,  with  which  I  found  him  thoroughly  familiar. 
I  then  found  that  his  hot-headed  countrymen,  after  a  long  series 
of  persecutions,  had  put  him  in  prison,  and  finally  he  was  com- 
pelled to  appeal  to  Caesar.  Being  a  Roman  citizen,  he  could 
do  this. 

"  This  I  learned  by  questions.  At  length  I  asked  him  to 
explain  his  principles  to  me.  I  was  taken  with  the  man,  and 
felt  curious  to  see  what  it  was  for  which  he  had  suffered  so 
much.  Having  received  permission  from  me,  and  even  en- 
couragement to  speak  freely,  he  began  a  most  extraordinary 
story,  which  seems  inexplicable  to  me,  as  I  am  a  plain  soldier; 
but  perhaps  you  or  Seneca,  who  are  philosophers,  might  account 
for  it. 

"  He  informed  me  that  a  great  teacher  had  appeared  among 


i 


\ 


74 


THE  MINISTER  OF  C^SAR. 


:ll>; 


the  Jews,  who  proclaimed  himself  to  be  a  god,  or  rather  the 
only  God ;  and  the  Jews,  in  their  usual  style,  persecuted  him, 
and  finally  had  him  tried  before  Pilate  ^.nd  executed.  All  this 
was  familiar  to  me  before,  but  his  way  of  representing  these 
facts  was  very  remarkable. 

"  It  seems  that  he  was  very  bitterly  opposed  to  the  followers 
of  this  man,  and  took  an  active  part  in  putting  them  to  death. 
But  one  day,  when  on  the  road  to  Damascus  to  carry  on  his 
work  more  extensively,  he  was  startled  by  a  sudden  vision ; 
and  he  affirms  that  he  distinctly  saw,  in  the  skies,  the  form  of 
this  mysterious  Jesus,  who  called  upon  him  to  desist  from  his 
work.  He  was  so  affected  that  he  became  a  Christian  himself. 
But  I  cannot  give  you  any  idea  of  the  story  as  he  told  it.  I 
felt  that  he,  at  least,  believed  what  he  was  saying,  whether  I 
did  or  net.  He  was  thoroughly  honect — a  marvel  in  these 
times. 

"  He  went  on  to  tell  me  much  about  his  doctrines — that 
this  Jesus  is  the  Son  of  God ;  that  the  soul  is  immortal,  and 
that  he  died  to  save  it ;  but  I  confess  that  all  this  was  rather 
beyond  me,  as  I  never  took  much  interest  in  subjects  of  this 
kind.  Yet  he  believed  it;  and  that  was  what  surprised  me. 
He  was  willing  to  die  for  this  belief.  How  many  men  in  Rome, 
my  dear  Cineas,  would  feel  in  this  way  % 

"  But  I  cannot  give  you  any  idea  of  his  forcible  way  of 
speaking.  It  was  not  art,  but  nature.  Although  I  did  not 
understand  a  word  he  said,  yet  I  felt  that  it  was  all  true ;  his 
manner  made  me  feel  so.  I  thought,  while  listening  and  look- 
ing at  him,  of  the  familiar  lines  of  old  Homer, — 


i  <i 


1!     I 


11! 


"  '  But  when  he  broke  the  silence,  'twas  a  voice  of  mighty  spell, 
And  words  like  wintry  snow-flakes  on  all  the  hearers  fell. 
Was  none  in  all  that  council  to  answer  what  they  heard ; 
His  aspect  was  forgotten  ;  we  marvelled  at  his  word.'  " 

"  What  became  of  him  ]"  asked  Cineas,  who  had  listened 
most  attentively. 


THE  MINISTER  OF  CMSAR. 


75 


"  Why,  I  let  him  go.  From  the  first,  I  knew  the  man,  and 
the  examination  was  a  form.  So  I  sent  him  away  with  friendly 
words,  and  told  him  that  I  should  like  to  see  him  and  hear 
him  again.  He  looked  at  me  respectfully,  but  half  reproach- 
fully, as  though  he  felt  that  I  would  forget  him,  and  never  hear 
again  the  doctrine  which  he  valued  so  highly — and  perhaps  I 
will; — but  he  said  nothing  more  on  that  point  3  and,  after 
expressing  his  thanks  for  my  moderation  and  justice,  he  took 
his  leave  with  grave  courtesy  and  retired." 

Cineas  said  nothing  for  some  moments.  The  deep  attention 
with  which  he  had  listened  to  the  story  of  his  examination, 
showed  that  it  possessed  no  slight  interest  in  his  mind.  Burrhus 
seemed  pleased  with  his  evident  interest ;  for  it  showed  him 
that  he  had  started  a  subject  of  no  Utile  mortance  to  the 
mind  of  his  visitor.  At  length,  Cineas  uttered  a  few  words 
expressive  of  his  admiration  of  this  Jew,  and  said  he  would 
like  to  soe  him. 

"  You  would  be  even  more  interested  in  him  than  I,  my 
dear  Cineas,"  said  Burrhus  \  "  for  I  am  a  soldier,  and  you  are 
a  philosopher.  To  you  this  man's  doctrines  would  be  wel- 
come You  could  understand  them,  and  discuss  them.  But  I 
have  not  the  power  of  doing  either." 

Much  conversation  followed,  of  a  varied  character. 

**  You  will  wish  to  have  an  interview  with  Caesar,  perhaps  1" 
said  Burrhus,  after  a  time,  in  an  inquiring  tone. 

Cineas  paused.  "  Yes,"  he  at  length  answered  ',  "  after  this 
suspense  about  Labeo  is  over." 

"  You  had  better,"  said  Burrhus.  "  His  taste  would  be 
gratified  by  your  peculiar  accomplishments.  He  has  twofold 
tastes — one  for  letters,  the  other  for  sensuality.  Tigellinus 
seeks  advancement  by  fostering  the  latter;  but  let  me  tell 
you,  Cineas,  that  you  might  for  a  short  time  rival  even  Tigel- 
linus, if  you  went  to  him  with  a  new  theory  of  versifica* 
tion." 


76 


N* 


THE  MINISTER  OF  CMSAR. 


"  Thank  you,"  said  Cineas.  "  When  I  go,  I  will  know  how 
to  act." 

"When  you  go,  take  him  some  new  thing  in  music  or 
poetry,  and  follow  it  up  by  talking  enthusiastically  about  art. 
You  will  succeed  at  once.  I  am  in  earnest  about  this,"  said 
Burrhus.  **  Seneca  might  still  have  retained  his  influence, 
if  he  had  retained  his  former  spirit.  But  he  is  growing 
old,  and  is  not  so  much  of  a  poet  as  a  philosopher.  When 
you  go  to  Csesar,  don't  be  too  philosophic.  Be  a  poet ! — be  a 
poet!" 

Cineas  smiled ;  and  when  he  took  his  leave,  shortly  after- 
ward, the  last  words  that  Burrhus  said  were,  "  Remember  I 
Be  a  poet!" 

i 

Cineas  had  much  to  think  of  as  he  rode  home.  It  was 
late  in  the  day  when  he  reached  the  gate  of  the  villa.  A  loud 
noise  arrested  his  attention.  It  sounded  like  a  fierce  alterca- 
tion. He  recognized  the  hated  voice  of  the  steward  Hegio, 
who,  in  his  most  insolent  tones,  was  ordering  some  one 
away. 

"  Be  gone  !"  said  he.  *'  Have  I  not  already  told  you  that 
he  is  not  here?" 

"  Away,  scoundrel ! "  retorted  the  other.  "  Let  me  pass,  or 
I  will  break  your  head  !" 

«  You  ?" 

"  Yes,  I,  impudent  whip-knave !  vile  hang-dog  !  Did  you  not 
get  beatings  enough  when  you  were  a  slave,  that  you  tempt  me 
to  give  you  another  nowl" 

Hegio  foamed  at  the  mouth  with  passion. 

"  I'm  a  Roman  citizen  !"  said  he.  *'  I'll  call  the  slaves,  and 
give  you  a  beating." 

"  You  a  Roman  citizen !"  roared  the  other,  with  a  bitter, 
contemptuous  laugh.  "  You  dog  of  a  Syrian  !  Why,  it's  only 
the  other  day  that  you  were  put  up  for  sale  in  the  market,  with 
your  feet  chalked,  like  the  other  slaves,  as  a  new  and  fresh  ira- 


■W 


'4' 


THE   ''.^l.   .STER  OF  C^SAR. 


77 


portetf  article.  You,  you  lang-dog,  a  Roman  citizen  1 — a  com- 
modity brought  over  along  with  figs  and  dates,  and  classified 
with  them  1    Off,  fool,  or  I'll  strike  you  dead  ! " 

He  strode  toward  Hegio.  Cineas  at  this  moment  came  up. 
He  had  heard  what  had  been  said,  and  perceived  at  a  glance 
that  the  stranger  was  able  to  assert  his  own  rights  for  himself. 
He  was  a  strongly-built  man,  of  military  air,  and  appeared  to 

about  fifty  years  of  age.  Hegio,  on  seeing  him  approach, 
ijU  ck  a  pace  or  two,  and  called  loudly  to  the  slaves  :  "  Cor- 
bri.   .  Storax !  Ho  !  seize  this  man  1" 

The  next  moment  a  mighty  hand  was  laid  on  his  throat, 
le^jio  struggled  and  struck  out  wildly.  But  his  Syrian  limbs 
'vere  no  match  for  the  mighty  sinews  of  his  antagonist,  which 
had  been  trained  in  Roman  discipline,  and  hardened  in  a  hun- 
dred campaigns.  With  a  mighty  effort  he  hurled  the  steward 
back,  and  dashed  him  violently  to  the  earth. 

By  this  time  a  number  of  stout  slaves  had  come  to  the  spot. 
Hegio  raised  himself  up,  and  roared  to  them  to  seize  the 
stranger.  Cineas  had  dismounted,  and  was  perceived  for  the 
first  time  by  the  stranger  and  Hegio.  He  waved  his  hands  to 
the  slaves,  motioning  them  back  as  they  advanced,  and  turned 
to  the  stranger. 

"Seize  himl"  screamed  Hegio,  again,  utterly  disregarding 
Cineas  in  his  passion,  and  trying  to  urge  the  slaves  on. 

"  If  you  don't  keep  silence,"  said  Cineas,  coldly,  "  they  shall 
seize  you."  And,  with  bitter  contempt,  he  turned  his  back  on 
Hegio.    The  Syrian  scowled  darkly  on  him. 

"  Health  to  you,  noble  Cineas,"  said  the  stranger.  "  My 
name  is  Aurulenus  Carbo ;  and  I  came  here  this  morning  at 
the  request  of  my  son  Julius,  who  is  a  centurion  of  Augustus' 
band,  and  has  a  strong  friendship  for  you." 

"Julius?"  cried  Cineas,  earnestly;  "the  father  of  Julius  1 
Much  health  to  you,  my  fViend.  I  have  often  longed  to  meet 
with  you."     And  he  embraced  the  stranger. 


I 


if 


I 


t    'f: 


78 


THE  MINISTER  OF  C^KSAR. 


"Whoever  you  are,"  cried  Hegio,  rudely  interrupting,  "be 
gone,  or" — 

"Whatl"  exclaimed  Cineas;  "don't  you  know  that  if  I 
give  the  word,  these  slaves  will  be  only  too  glad  to  seize  you, 
and  scourge  the  life-blood  out  of  you  ?  Be  gone,  fool  that  you 
are,  and  don't  draw  on  yourself  worse  punishment!     Away!" 

Hegio's  eyes  sank  before  the  fiery  glance  of  Cineas,  and  with 
muttered  curses  he  slowly  turned  and  walked  away. 

"  Let  me  offer  my  apologies,  my  friend,"  said  Cineas,  for 
the  insolence  of  this  ruffian.  "  He  is  a  scoundrel,  whom  I  am 
even  now  preparing  to  punish  as  he  deserves." 

"  No  apologies  are  needed  from  you,  certainly,"  said  Carbo. 
"And  besides,  you  have  seen  that  I  avenged  myself.  But  I 
am  not  surprised  at  this.  Every  great  house  is  full  of  these 
scoundrels,  who  are  allowed  to  insult  with  impunity  all  who  do 
not  come  with  a  great  retinue.  Pah  I  Let  us  talk  no  more  ot 
him.  Rome  is  full  of  these  Syrian  dogs.  The  River  Orontes 
discharges  itself  here,  and  the  whole  state  is  filled  with  the 
abominations  of  the  East.  But  I  will  tell  you  why  I  came. 
My  son  Julius  arrived  here  some  two  months  ago,  and  never 
knew  till  yesterday  that  you  were  here.  As  he  was  busy  to-day, 
he  could  not  come  in  person  to  see  you.  So  I  came  in  his 
place ;  for  I  well  know  all  that  you  have  done  for  him,  and  I 
wish  to  thank  you  for  saving  him  from  vice  and  ruin.  He  has 
told  me,  noble  Cineas,  that,  when  he  was  stationed  at  Athens, 
he  yielded  to  temptation,  and  was  rapidly  sinking  to  ruin.  You 
found  him ;  and  at  a  moment  when  he  was  irretrievably  in  debt 
from  gambling,  and  the  loss  of  his  rank  and  ruin  were  before 
him.  You  found  him  when  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  kill 
himself,  and  brought  him  to  your  society,  and  paid  all  his 
debts,  and,  what  is  better,  taught  him  to  seek  after  virtue. 
What  is  the  use  of  words  1  He  was  saved,  and  through  you. 
Noble  Cineas,  a  father  thanks  you  for  the  salvation  of  his  son." 

The  stern  Roman,  who  had  spoken  all  this  without  regarding 


THE  MINISTER  OF  CESAR. 


79 


Cineas's  attempts  to  interrupt  or  deprecate  his  praises,  now 
seized  his  hand  and  pressed  it  warmly.  * 

"  You  give  me  altogether  too  much  praise,"  began  Cineas  j 
but  Carbo  interrupted  him, — 

"  There,  there — enough.  I  will  never  allude  to  it  again.  I 
hate  praise ;  but  this  was  your  due.  We  will  talk  of  something 
else." 

•*  Come,  then,"  said  Cineas;  "  let  us  go  in," — and  they  walked 
together  toward  the  house. 

"  I  thought  you  lived  in  Rome,"  said  Cineas,  as  they  reclined 
on  couches,  and  had  wine  placed  before  them.  "  Your  son 
spoke  of  you  as  having  a  house  in  the  city." 

"  So  I  did,"  said  Carbo,  "  until  last  year.  But  Rome  was 
aU'ays  abhorrent  to  me.  It  is  a  Syrian  city,  and  the  vice  that 
reigns  everywhere  is  terrible  to  an  honest  man.  What  could  I 
do  ni  Rome]  I  cannot  lie;  I  cannot  fawn  and  cringe.  When  I 
go  into  a  great  house  I  cannot  give  assiduous  attentions  among 
haughty  n;enials  for  hours,  until  the  master  gives  me  a  careless 
nod.  And  so  I  have  come  forth  to  a  little  spot  here  in  the 
country,  where  I  can  have  fresh  air  and  liberty." 

"  Do  you  live  near  here  ]" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  my  little  estate  is  only  a  mile  away.  You  can 
see  the  house,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  small  villa  peeping  out 
from  among  trees  in  the  distance. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Carbo,  reverting  again  to  Rome ;  "  there 
is  no  place  in  the  city  for  honesty,  no  reward  for  labour.  One's 
property  day  after  day  grows  less,  and  the  next  day  still  less. 
I  found  my  little  savings  diminishing,  and  so  I  determined  to 
go  forth  into  the  country  while  a  little  of  my  life  was  yet  left 
me,  while  my  old  age  was  hale  and  hearty,  and  while  I  could 
get  along  without  the  help  of  a  staff.  Let  swindlers  stay  there; 
let  those  live  there  who  can  turn  white  into  black,  who  can  get 
a  living  by  thieving  an  i  swindling.  The  city  is  full  of  vaga- 
bonds, formerly  known  all  over  Italy ;  but  now  they  are  mana- 


,a 


I 

^ 


!! 
■I 


r 


i   t 


i.    " 


[i- 


80 


r<^^  MINISTER  OF  Cy€SAR. 


gers  of  theatres  and  public  spectacles.  Why  shouldn't  they  gel 
hold  of  everything  1  In  fact,  they  will  in  time.  Such  is  the 
way  in  which  Fortune  jokes  with  us.  No,  no.  Rome  is  not 
the  place  for  me.  I  can't  cheat  the  public  by  setting  up  as  an 
astrologer  or  a  wizard ;  I  can't  and  I  won't  promise  to  spend- 
thrifts the  death  of  their  fathers;  I've  never  inspected  the 
entrails  of  frogs,  so  as  to  tell  fortunes  from  them ;  if  I  were  a 
steward,  no  thieves  could  live  around  me.  And  so  I'm  n  *:  the 
man  for  Rome,  and  you  see  me  here ;  and  here  I  am,  chatter- 
ing on  this  bitter  theme,  which  is  always  in  my  thoughts. 
Excuse  me,  my  friend ;  but  I  am  a  Roman  of  the  old  sort,  and 
it's  a  hard  thing  to  see  my  country  going  to  ruin." 

Cineas  assured  him  that  he  sympathized  with  his  feelings,  and 
could  understand  his  bitterness. 

"  Bitterness?"  repeated  Carbo.  "  Ay,  who  could  help  feeling 
bitterness  to  see  one's  country  handed  over  to  freedmen  and 
foreign  dancing-girls.  The  flatterer  is  the  only  one  who  has  a 
chance  of  favour.  The  Syrian  can  do  this  better  than  the 
Roman.  He  comes  here  a  slave ;  and,  before  you  know  it,  he 
is  high  in  favour,  and  can  take  a  seat  above  you  at  the  table. 
He  can  lie  about  you,  and  have  you  excluded  altogether  from 
the  house. 

"  There's  no  chance  for  a  poor  man.  Even  in  courts  of  law 
their  oath  is  slighted.  Bring  forward  the  best  of  men — bring 
forward  Numa  in  a  Roman  law-court  now,  and  the  first 
question  would  be  as  to  his  revenut  How  many  slaves  does 
he  own  ?  How  many  acres  does  he  possess  1  The  poor  man 
is  thrust  into  the  lowest  places  at  tables  and  the  worst  seats  in 
the  public  spectacles." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  began  to  talk  of  something  else  in 
a  mild  and  very  different  tone.  Cineas  found  that  when  he  was 
speaking  on  any  other  subject,  he  was  grave  and  calm,  but 
when  once  he  commenced  on  the  subject  of  Rome,  he  was  bit- 
ter and  vehement  and  passionate.      He  loved  his  country  ;  his 


THE  MINISTER  OF  C^.^IAR. 


8i 


penetrating  eye  saw  the  ruin  that  was  overspreading  it ;  yet  he 
saw  not  one  ray  of  hope.  Nor  did  Cineas.  He,  too,  knew  the 
vice  of  the  capital,  and  did  not  know  how  it  could  end  at  last. 
And  so  the  day  ended,  and  late  in  the  evening  Carbo  took  hig 
departure. 


1188} 


\ 


VI. 


ft  ■ 


hi 


i         I 


i   I. 


^t  #fKar  toj^o  SatUtr  foit^  f  awl. 

FEW  days  afterwards,  Cineas  had  a  visit  from  Carbo 
again,  and  this  time  he  was  accompanied  by  his 
son  Julius.  The  latter  was  of  about  the  same  age 
as  his  friend,  and  wore  the  dress  of  a  Roman  Cen- 
turion. He  looked  much  like  his  father,  but  there  was  more 
refinement  in  his  face,  and  courtesy  in  his  bearing.  Cineas  was 
outside  as  they  rode  up,  and  hastened  to  meet  them.  Julius 
flung  himself  from  his  horse,  and  tenderly  embraced  him. 

"  Health  and  happiness,  my  dearest  friend,"   said  Julius. 
"  How  rejoiced  I  am  to  see  you  again,  and  here  too  !" 
"  Health  and  joy,  dear  JuHus,  and  a  thousand  welcomes  : 

"  '  Who  has  restored  thee  back, — a  Roman, 
To  native  gods,  and  this  Italian  clime  ? ' 

as  your  Horace  says ;  but  come, — 

"  '  Come,  let  the  vow  to  Jove  be  paid, 
And  rest,  beneath  my  laurc^  shade. 
Thy  war-worn  frame  ;  nor  spare  the  wine 
Reserved  for  thee,  best  friend  of  mine  !'" 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  Julius,  laughingly,  as  he  entered  the 
house  arm  in  arm  with  his  friend,  **  you  condescend  to  quote 
a  Latin  poet,  do  you  1 — you  fanatical  Greek  !  " 

"  Oh,  on  such  an  occasion  as  this,  I  would  be  guilty  of  any 
extravagance.     With  Horace, — 

"  '  I'll  be  as  frantic  as  a  BacchanaL 

'Tis  sweet  to  laugh,  And  play  the  fool, 
When  welcoming  «  (riend  within  my  hall.  " 


THE  OFFICER  PVHO  SAILED  WITH  PAUL, 


83 


The  three  were  soon  in  the  house,  and  reclining  on  couches, 
and  wine  was  placed  before  them.  Cineas  plied  his  friend  with 
questions.  He  had  much  to  ask  him,  for  he  had  not  heard 
from  him  since  they  were  in  Athens  together. 

At  length  Cineas  inquired  by  what  fortune  he  had  come  to 
Rome. 

At  this  question  the  manner  of  Julius  underwent  a 
change. 

"  Cineas,"  said  he,  "  my  adventures  on  this  voyage  are  the 
most  marvellous  that  I  have  ever  known." 

**  Tell  me  about  it  by  all  means,"  said  Cineas,  with  much 
interest. 

Julius  thereupon  began : 

"  There  was  a  certain  remarkable  Jew  in  Palestine  when  I 
was  there,  named  Paul.  This  man  was  distinguished  for  his 
bold  and  ardent  advocacy  of  a  new  religion.  In  preaching  this 
he  had  endured  pains  and  perils  without  number.  At  last,  his 
enemies  got  hold  of  him,  and  he  was  subjected  to  a  trial.  In 
the  meantime  he  had  used  his  rights  as  a  Roman  citizen, — he 
was  a  native  of  Tarsus, — and  appealed  unto  Caesar.  Festus 
would  have  freed  him  if  it  had  not  been  for  this  appeal ;  as  it 
was,  he  sent  him  to  Rome,  with  some  other  prisoners,  and  I 
was  appointed  to  accompany  them. 

"  I  was  struck  by  the  first  sight  of  my  prisoner.  His  genial 
and  courteous  manner,  his  uncomplaining  disposition,  and 
thorough  kind-heartedness,  would  of  themselves  have  com- 
mended him  to  me.  But  there  was  something  more  in  him, 
for  behind  all  this  there  was  a  solemn,  earnest  purpose,  the  aim 
of  his  life. 

"  He  loved  to  converse  with  any  one  who  was  at  all  accessible, 
and  I  soon  found  myself  engaging  in  long  discussions  on  those 
lofty  themes  for  which  you,  Cineas,  first  gave  me  a  taste, — the 
soul,  immortality,  and  God.  Never  had  I  heard  such  sentiments 
as  these,  which  this  man  had.     At  first,  I  compared  him  to 


ilia  I 


i  ,1 


4 


\ 


84 


THE  OFFICER  WHO  SAILED  WITH  PAUL. 


M 


Socrates ;  afterwards,  I  felt  that  all  of  Socrates'  teachings  con- 
tained nothing  like  these. 

"  He  won  all  my  confidence.  I  told  him  of  my  experience 
in  Athens,  of  my  reform,  of  your  kindness,  of  *  the  master,' 
and  his  teachings ;  to  all  of  which  he  listened  with  deep  interest. 

"  After  the  usual  course,  we  came  to  Myra,  a  city  of  Lycia, 
and  there  I  found  an  Alexandrian  vessel,  on  her  way  to  Italy, 
laden  with  grain.     In  this  vessel  we  all  embarked." 

Then  Julius  proceeded  to  give  an  account  of  one  of  the  most 
memorable  voyages  on  record :  the  dangers  of  the  sea ;  the 
harbour  of  refuge  sought  once,  and  afterwards  forsaken ;  the 
dreadful  storm,  before  which  the  frail  bark  was  driven  helplessly; 
the  despair  of  all  on  tK)ard ;  the  heroic  attitude  of  the  one  man, 
who,  by  his  words,  inspired  all  the  others  with  calmness  and 
fortitude  and  hope.  He  told  how  they  were  at  last  driven 
ashore,  and  not  a  life  was  lost,  but  all  were  saved,  as  Paul  had 
foretold.  Then  he  spoke  of  the  wonderful  acts  of  Paul  in 
Melita,  and  the  astonishment  of  all  who  witnessed  them.  After 
which  he  asked  Cineas, — 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  and  all  this  I  have  seen  with 
my  own  eyes. 

"  It  is  amazing ! " 

"  It  is  true,  for  I  saw  it.  It  is  the  power  of  that  God,  Cineas, 
whose  servant  Paul  is." 

Cineas  said  nothing. 

Julius  resumed  his  narrative  : 

"  We  spent  the  winter  on  the  island,  and  many  and  many  a 
scene  occurred  there,  which  I  never  can  forget.  During  this 
time  Paul  spoke  more  particularly  to  me  of  his  great  doctrine, 
for  which  he  had  toiled  so  long,  and  suffered  so  much.  Those 
three  months  must  always  be  remembered  by  me ;  and  I  have 
many  things  to  tell  you,  Cineas,  which  must  be  reserved  for 
another  time,  for  I  need  a  long  time  to  talk  with  you,  over  such 
important  things  as  these. 


THE  OFFICER  WHO  SAILED  WITH  PAUL. 


85 


**  But  I  will  bring  my  narrative  to  a  conclusion.  We  remained . 
on  the  island  about  three  months,  and  then,  as  the  winter  was 
over,  we  embarjced  in  the  Castor  and  Pollux,  and  arrived,  after 
a  time,  at  Puteoli.     Thence  we  came  to  Rome. 

"  He  seemed  to  have  many  friends  here,  who  were  expecting 
him,  for  numbers  came  to  meet  him,  some  even  as  far  as  Appii 
Forum  and  the  Three  Taverns.  The  meeting  showed  that  this 
remarkable  man  had  inspired  among  them  the  warmest  senti- 
ments of  devotion." 

*'  Have  you  seen  him  since?"  asked  Cineas. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Julius,  "  frequently.  Indeed,  my  guardian- 
ship was  not  altogether  ended  till  a  few  days  ago,  when  I  took 
him  to  Burrhus.  He  was  well  received.  Burrhus  himself 
respected  him,  and  allowed  him  to  live  by  himself,  with  a  soldier 
that  kept  him." 

"  I  heard  from  Burrhus  of  this  interview,"  said  Cineas. 

Julius  looked  surprised. 

"  I  was  in  Rome  a  few  days  since  and  saw  him.  He  spoke 
in  high  terms  of  this  man." 

"  He  ijs  a  marvellous  man.  His  ascendency  over  others  is 
wonderful.  I  heard  a  noble  speech  which  he  made  before 
Festus  and  King  Agrippa.  They  were  charmed  with  his  noble 
bearing  and  eloquence.  On  board  the  ship  he  exerted  the 
same  influence  over  all,  from  myself  down  to  the  meanest  sailor. 
His  attitude  during  the  long  and  frightful  storm  was  noble. 
Never  for  an  instant  did  his  courage  falter.  His  calm  face 
always  preserved  a  lofty  serenity ;  and  when  he  spoke,  it  was 
always  with  a  cheerful  smile.  In  the  darkest  hour,  when  despair 
filled  the  hearts  of  all,  he  stood  unmoved,  as  though  he  was  in 
perfect  safety.  For  my  part,  I  think  I  have  as  much  courage 
as  ordinary  men ;  but  here  was  a  man  who,  while  we  were 
mourning,  and  expecting  every  moment  our  last  hour,  stood 
among  us  with  such  unquaiUng  steadfastness,  that  the  very  sight 
of  him  inspired  courage  into  us." 


^■'1 


! : 


i 


i  H  li 


m 


V 


i.i 


If! 
1 


'  :  I    t 


'  :i    f:^' 


ifl! 


I 


86 


TJ/£  OFFICE/?  WHO  SAILED  iVITH  PA  UL. 


"  He  ought  to  be  a  Roman,"  said  Carbo.  "  He  is  a  man  of 
the  right  sort.  I  care  not  what  his  accusers  say  of  him,  he  is 
the  highest  type  of  man." 

"Such  a  man,"  said  Julius,  "as  answers  the  noble  description 
of  Horace, — 

" '  The  upright  man,  the  man  of  iron  will ; 
Nor  civil  fury  urging  on  to  ill, 

Nor  raging  despot's  angry  frown. 

Can  'ast  his  steadfast  spirit  down  ; 
Nor  the  fierce  wind  that  rules  the  Adrian  Sea, 
Nor  Jove,  when  all  his  lightnings  are  set  free, — 

Though  all  the  world  to  ruin  roll, 

He  views  the  wreck  with  fearless  soul." 

*  !5ut  he  had  something  more  than  mere  courage,"  he  added, 
mu'ingly ;  "  he  had  that  spiritual  power  to  sustain  him  which 
made  him  superior  to  other  men.  By  that  supernatural  influence 
he  was  enabled  to  foretell  our  deliverance,  to  save  himself  from 
(he  most  venomous  of  reptiles,  and  to  heal  the  sick  by  his  touch." 

"  He  i:5  a  wizard,"  said  Carbo.  "  He  draws  his  power  from 
some  unhallowed  source." 

"  Unhallow  ed  1  His  whole  life  is  hallowed,  and  all  his 
thoughts  and  words.  For,  mark  you,  he  does  all  this  out  of 
kindness  and  pity ;  he  is  no  wizard,  seeking  for  gain.  He  is 
poor,  and  has  often  to  work  with  his  own  hands  for  his  bread." 

"  If  he  has  this  supernatural  power,  would  he  need  to  work  1 
Could  he  not  turn  stones  into  gold  1"  said  Carbo. 

*'  He  does  not,  at  anyrate ;  and  yet  I  know  that  he  has  this 
power,  for  I  have  seen  it.  He  never  boasts, — never  makes 
displays.  But  when  the  poor  father  carries  to  him  the  emaciated 
form  of  his  child,  or  the  weeping  mother  implores  him  to  come 
and  save  her  dying  son,  then  his  face  lights  up  with  an  expres- 
sion of  more  than  human  pity,  and  he  goes,  in  his  kindness  and 
tenderness,  to  pray  over  the  sick  and  save  them.  He  says  it  is 
all  done  by  the  Deity,  to  whom  he  humbly  prays ;  that  he  is 
only  a  weak  man,  and  of  himself  can  do  nothing. 

"  One  of  his  companions  told  me  many  more  things  about 


THE  OFFICER  WHO  SAILED  WITH  PAUL, 


87 


him.  He  told  me  of  his  wonderful  travels  over  the  East  and 
Greece, — how  he  was  sometimes  stoned  almost  to  de  tth,  and 
at  other  tiir  et;  worshipped  as  a  god.  This  man,  who  was  his 
companion,  was  himself  an  extraordinary  personage,  with  much 
of  the  calmness  and  deep-set  purpose  of  Paul ;  but  he  seemed 
to  think  himself  as  notning  in  comparison  with  his  friend." 

"  Oh,  this  supernatural  power  is  not  so  unintelligible  1 "  said 
Carbo.     "  Didn't  Socrates  have  an  attendant  spirit  % " 

"The  attendant  spirit  of  Soorates  was  very  different  from 
this.  It  was  a  kind  of  inward  monitor,  which  forewarned  him 
of  danger;  it  was  not  an  active  power  like  this,  by  which  he 
could  heal  the  sick." 

Cineas  said  but  little.  The  wonderful  story  of  Julius  sank 
deep  into  his  ir.Ind.  Already  this  man  Paul  had  been  p; emi- 
nent in  his  thovii^Hls.  Now  circumstances  had  thrown  around 
him  a  new  and  stronger  attraction. 

"  What  are  these  (jreat  doctrines  that  yo:i  allude  to  with  so 
much  emphasis?'  x-ked  Caibo.  "What  is  Paull  What  dees 
he  teach?  Whr.c  vz  this  new  thing,  for  which  he  suffers  so 
much  and  is  reac' /  to  die  % " 

"I  cannot  unfold  them  fully  just  now,"  said  Julius.     "He 

however,  a  Chrisliaij- — '' 

"  A   Christian ! "   cried  Carbo,  interrupting  him.     "  What 
only  a  Christian  ! " 

His  face  assumed  an  expression  of  mingled  contempt  and 
disappointment. 

"  I  know  them, — the  curse  of  P.ome  and  the  offscouring  *" 
the  earth.  These  are  the  men  and  the  doctrines  that  are 
ruining  the  empire." 

"How?"  asked  Julius,  mildly. 

"Why,  they  practise  abominable  secret  vices." 

"I  know  that  to  be  false,"  said  Julius:  "for  I  have  attended 
very  many  of  their  most  secret  meetingb,  and  I  afiirm  to  you 
that  their  object  is  a  pure  and  holy  one." 


•■•;*  '■  P 


,'  I 


It 

1  f' 


i\' 


88 


r//E  OFFICE/?  WHO  SAILED  WITH  PAUL. 


"Well,  then,  they  are  at  least  cowards;  they  teach  that 
fighting  is  wrong,  that  cowardice  is  pleasing  to  their  God. 
Rome  is  effeminate  enough  already ;  but  this  doctrine  is  the 
very  thing  that  can  extinguish  the  last  spark  of  manhood." 

"My  father,"  said  Julius,  calmly,  as  soon  as  Carbo  had 
ended,  "was  this  man  whom  I  have  been  describing  a  coward  1 
He,  who  shamed  us  Roman  soldiers  by  his  heroism  in  the  face 
of  appalling  disaster,  a  coward  1  Would  that  there  were  more 
of  them!" 

"No,"  said  Carbo,  frankly;  "he,  at  least,  is  no  coward. 
Faith  !  nothing  tries  a  man  more  than  shipwreck." 

"And,  I  assure  you,  the  others  are  like  him  in  this.  You 
have  heard  the  idle  tal^s  of  their  enemies ;  for,  of  all  men  on 
earth,  the  Christians  have  the  least  fear  of  death.  In  Asia 
many  have  had  to  suffer  and  die ;  and  they  always  go  to  execu- 
tion not  merely  with  calmness,  but  even  with  joy." 

"Joyi" 

"  Yes.  Such  is  their  religion  that  they  are  convinced  that 
they  will  be  happy  for  ever  in  heaven ;  and  so  they  have  no 
fear  of  death.     Can  such  men  be  cowards  1 " 

Carbo  was  silent. 

For  the  remainder  of  the  day,  Cineas  and  Julius  had  much 
to  say  to  one  another.  More  conversation  about  the  Chris- 
tians followed;  but  Cineas  had  much  to  communicate  about 
the  absence  of  Labeo  and  the  villany  of  Hegio.  They  sepa- 
rated in  the  evening  with  mutual  promises  to  visit  one  another. 

"  And  I  will  take  you  to  see  this  wonderful  Jew  some  day," 
said  Julius,  with  a  smile  that  did  no*:  altogether  conceal  his 
deep  earnestness  in  this  proposal. 


i 


III  '} 


)  il     U 


i«-i-< 


VII. 


C^e  ^gnan  If^arns  a  Wesson. 


EN  weeks  had  passed  away  since  the  nurse  was  first 
taken  sick,  and  she  now  began  to  recover  the  use 
of  her  faculties.  Isaac,  true  to  his  promise,  was 
unremitting  in  his  care;  and  his  skill  was  rewarded 
by  success.  He  received  the  thanks  and  praises  of  Helena 
with  equanimity,  and  continued  his  care  with  better  prospects 
than  ever. 

When  the  nurse  began  to  be  conscious  again  of  surrounding 
events,  she  recognized  first  of  all  the  tender  care  of  Helena, 
No  words  seemed  sufficient  to  her  to  express  her  gratitude. 
She  poured  forth  all  the  warm  emotions  of  a  generous  heart  to 
her  mistress,  and  declared  that  nothing  could  be  a  sufficient 
return  for  so  much  kindness. 

At  times  her  thoughts  would  revert  to  that  mournful  event 
in  her  life  which  had  been  so  bitterly  brought  before  her  recol- 
lection by  Cineas,  and  Helena  could  understand  the  sadness 
which  her  face  wore;  but  calmness  would  succeed,  as  other 
things  came  to  her  mind,  and  the  usual  serenity  reigned  upon 
her  face,  which  distinguished  it  before.  Helena  was  careful  to 
make  no  allusion  to  this  great  sorrow,  and  refrained  from 
touching  upon  any  subject  which  might,  by  any  possibility,  be 
associated  with  it.  She  chose  rather  to  talk  to  her  of  her 
recovery,  and  of  the  time  when  she  could  again  resume  her 
care  of  Marcus. 


f  I 
•    \  I 

ill 
''    til  I 
M  7 
*       I 

I  \ 

I 


if 


!    1' 


I  ii    ' 


90 


THE  SYRIAN  LEARNS  A  LESSON. 


As  for  Marcus,  his  joy  was  unbounded  when  the  nurse  recog- 
nized him  again.  He  had  been  deeply  grieved  that  she  had 
through  all  her  sickness  taken  no  notice  of  him,  and  had 
feared,  in  his  childish  way,  that  he  had  done  something  to 
offend  her;  but  now  returning  reason  and  health  brought  back 
all  her  former  affection,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  unchanged. 

"  You  are  my  own  dear  nurse  again,"  he  said,  as  he  embraced 
her  fondly  and  kissed  her  pale  face.  "  And  now  you  will  soon 
walk  with  me  hand  in  hand,  as  you  used  to  do,  under  the 
plane-trees,  and  tell  me  about  the  dear  God  and  Saviour,  and 
all  those  wonderful  stories.  And  oh,  dearest  nurse,  I  have 
forgotten  none  of  them;  but  I  have  thought  of  them  every 
night  till  I  fell  asleep,  ^.nd  then  I  used  to  dream  of  them  till 
morning." 

The  nurse  fondly  stroked  the  boy's  head  with  her  thin  hand, 
and  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  my  sweet  child;  I  have  many  and  many  stories  to 
tell,  and,  if  it  be  God's  will,  we  will  again  walk  under  the 
plane-trees." 

"  And  I  will  be  a  listener,"  said  Helena,  gently. 

The  nurse  looked  up  inquiringly,  with  a  strange  and  eager 
curiosity  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  have  heard  so  much  of  your  stories  from  Marcus,"  said 
Helena,  kindly,  "  that  I  want  to  know  more.  Do  you  know 
what  it  is  to  have  within  you  a  longing  and  craving  after  some 
better  source  of  comfort  than  this  life  affords  1  You  do,  you 
do !     You  can  sympathize  with  me."" 

"With  you,  most  beloved  mistress  1"  exclaimed  the  nurse, 
her  face  now  radiant  with  hope ;  "  I  wcwld  lay  down  my  life 
for  you.  If  I  but  dared  to  tell  you  what  I  know ;  if  you  would 
but  listen," — 

She  paused. 

"  My  soul,"  said  Helena,  in  low,  earnest  tones,  "  my  soul 
longs  for  rest.     There  is  One  who  alone  can  give  it  this.     You 


THE  SYRIAN  LEARNS  A  LESSON. 


91 


have  found  him.  He  is  the  one  whose  name  you  have  mur- 
mured in  your  delirium,  to  whom  you  pray,  on  whom  you 
rely.  If  I  could  but  know  what  you  know,  and  feel  as  you 
feel,  then  I  could  have  peace.  You  must  teach  me  this.  You 
must  talk  to  me  as  you  have  talked  to  Marcus.  You  must  let 
me  know  your  secret  consolation." 

The  nurse  trembled  with  emotion,  and,  folding  her  ema- 
ciated hands,  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  murmured 
words  of  prayer. 

•*  *  Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul ! ' "  she  said  at  last,  in  tones 
that  thrilled  through  Helena.  "  '  Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul, 
and  all  that  is  within  me  bless  his  holy  name.'  He  has  heard 
my  prayers.  He  has  awakened  these  dear  hearts  so  that  they 
long  for  him. 

" '  My  soul  doth  magnify  the  Lord,  and  my  spirit  doth  exult 
in  God  my  Sa\  iour.' 

Helena  gently  checked  her. 

**  Not  now,  not  now,^'  she  said.  "  You  are  too  weak.  The 
slightest  emotion  disturbs  you  and  makes  you  weaker." 

"O  my  dearest  mistress,"  said  the  nurse,  "this  does  not 
weaken  me;  it  gives  me  strength." 

"No.  See  how  you  tremble.  Your  poor  heart  beats  as 
though  it  would  burst" 

"  But  if  I  talk  to  you  on  this  it  will  make  me  calm.  The 
very  thought  is  comfort  and  peace." 

"  It  is,  it  is ;  but  you  must  keep  that  thought  to  yourself  till 
you  grow  stronger." 

"  Oh,  I  long  to  talk  to  you  about  it  now  ! "  and  the  nurse,  in 
her  eagerness,  tried  to  raise  herself  on  her  elbow.  But  she  was 
too  weak,  and  in  a  moment  sank  back  again  panting. 

"  There,"  said  Helena,  kindly,  "  you  see  how  weak  you  are 
I  am  sorry  I  spoke  of  this  now.  When  you  are  stronger  I 
shall  rejoice  to  near  you;  but  now  I  must  refuse  to  listen. 
Think  how  angry  Isaac  would  be  if,  after  all  his  care  and  skill, 


I 


i  ■' 


■PI 


•I 
% 


'1 


HI 


Hi 


Hi 


'•  » 


92 


77//?  SYK/AJV  LEARNS  A  LESSON. 


I  should  suffer  you  by  my  impatience  to  iiavc  a  relapse.     No, 
no.     We  must  both  wait." 

"I  will  obey,  then,"  said  the  nurse,  faintly.  "You  know 
better  than  I  do,  and  I  will  do  whatever  you  say.  T3ut  oh, 
what  new  comfort  you  have  given  me !  If  anything  could  make 
me  recover  rapidly,  it  would  be  this.  It  has  driven  away  all 
my  sorrow  already." 

The  nurse  fondly  hoped  that  in  a  few  days  she  would  gain 
the  strong  desire  of  her  heart,  and  be  able  to  talk  to  her 
mistress  on  the  great  subject  to  which  she  had  invited  her;  but 
she  had  mi.staken  her  strength.  Her  ageil  frame  had  not  that 
vitality  by  which  one  rallies  rapidly  from  a  severe  shock;  and, 
as  day  succeeded  to  day,  even  when  improvement  was  going 
on,  change  for  the  better  was  not  very  percei)tible. 

"  Mother  dearest,"  Marcus  would  say,  **  how  strange  it  is 
that  my  dear  nurse  should  have  to  suffer  so  long  I  At  first  I 
thought  that  she  was  going  to  leave  us,  and  enter  that  briglit 
work!  where  the  angels  and  the  holy  children  dwell ;  but  she 
has  not  gone,  and  now,  why  does  she  not  get  welU" 

Helena  explained  how,  in  such  an  old  person,  it  took  a  long 
time  to  recover. 

'*  I  pray  to  God  for  her, — to  my  God  and  Saviour, — and  that 
is  the  reason,  I  suppose,  why  she  is  getting  better;  and  she 
wouldn't  have  got  well  at  all  if  I  hadn't  prayed, — would  she, 
mother  r' 

"  I  don't  know,  my  darling,"  said  Helena,  not  knowing  what 
to  ^ay. 

"But  I  fmd  it  hard  to  pray  without  her;  that  is,  I  did  at 
first." 

"How?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  but  it  used  to  seem  when  she  was  with 
me  as  if  all  the  room  was  full  of  angels,  and  sometimes  as  if 
my  Saviour  was  standing  near  me,  smiling  at  nie  just  as  nurse 
used  to  smile.     And  when  she  was   sick,  the  room  was   all 


THE  SYRIAN  LEARNS  A  LESSON. 


9S 


empty.     Hut  after  a  time  the  angels  began  to  come  again;  and 
now,  when  I  pray,  I  think  God  hears." 

And  so  Marcus  used  to  prattle  to  his  mother,  while  a  deeper 
longing  than  ever  took  possession  of  Helena's  heart  that  she, 
too,  might  take  part  in  sucli  pure  and  holy  communion,  and  be 
to  her  son  what  the  nurse  had  been. 

During  all  this  time,  the  attention  of  Cineas  was  almost  al- 
together engrossed  with  the  investigations  of  Isaac,  and  the 
various  plans  which  presented  themselves  for  counterplotting 
against  Hegio.  After  the  outbreak  with  Carbo,  Cineas  took  no 
notice  of  him  whatever  for  a  lew  days ;  but  at  length  he  sum- 
moned him  before  him.  The  Syrian  made  his  appearance,  his 
dark  face  more  gloomy  than  ever.  He  performed  the  salu- 
tation in  so  disdainful  a  manner,  that  Cineas  felt  compelled  to 
notice  it. 

"  Fellow,"  said  he,  "  wh  n  you  come  before  your  masters, 
you  should  demean  yourself  as  becomes  an  inferior." 

Hegio  said  nothing,  and  Cineas  went  on, — 

"  After  your  insolence  to  my  friend  Carbo,  it  would  be  no 
more  than  right  to  have  you  chastised  and  dismissed ;  but  I  do 
not  wish  to  act  unjustly,  and  so  I  have  waited  till  my  passion 
cooled,  so  as  to  deal  with  you  properly." 

"  YoH  have  nothing  to  do  with  me,"  said  Hegio,  rudely. 
**  You  never  employed  me." 

"  After  what  has  passed,  it  would  be  but  jusi  it"  I  dismissed 
you  on  the  spot,"  said  Cineas,  calmly.  "  As  to  my  rights  and 
power  here,  I  think  you  are  mistaken.  I  am  the  guardian  of 
Marcus,  and  the  controller  of  this  estate." 

"  You  1"  cried  Hegio,  in  amazement. 

"  To  such  an  impudent  knave  as  you,  I  don't  know  what 
concessions  are  to  oe  made.  You  evidently  don't  know  who 
and  what  I  am.  You  don't  appear  to  know  that  I  coul.l  crush 
you  and  your  miserable  life  in  a  moment." 

"  No,"  said  Hegio,  coldly ;  "  I  do  not  know  that." 


>  1 


.^J?^, 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


// 


//A 


.-  ^^^ 

i  ^Ai 


^ 


1.0 


1.1 


1.25 


|io    "^^      MI^Hi 

no    12.0 


us 


1.4 


III 


1.6 


'4- 


Fhotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4503 


'/. 


\ 


# 


^ 


\ 


^ 


94 


r//£  SYRIAN  LEARNS  A  LESSON. 


<» 


J  s 


Id  order  to  satisfy  your  mind  fully,  and  free  you  from 
anxiety  aoout  the  justness  of  my  right,  I  will  show  you  this 
document,  which  your  master  has  signed.  You  will  perceive 
that,  under  certain  circumstances,  he  appoints  me  the  guardian 
of  his  son,  and  absolute  controller  of  all  his  property.  Tiie 
circumstances  have  occurred,  and  I  have  formally  assumed  my 
new  duties.    I  am  master  here. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  that  I  will  revenge  myself  on  you  for 
your  insolence.  Not  at  all.  You  are  altogether  beneath  my 
notice.  You  have  risen  from  the  lowest  dregs  of  the  populace 
to  this  position.    I  will  be  satisfied  by  thrusting  you  out  of  it, 

"  Perhaps  your  jealousy  for  the  interests  of  this  family  may 
lead  you  to  wonder  how  I  am  placed  here  with  such  powers. 
For  I  can  sell  all  this  ^o-monow  if  I  wish.  I  will  conaescend 
to  relieve  you  of  this  anxiety.  Marcus  is  not  only  heir  to  this 
estate,  but  to  mine  also.  This  is  as  nothing  compared  with 
what  I  will  leave  him.  He  will,  at  my  death,  be  master  of 
more  than  twenty  different  estates  in  Achaia ;  each  of  which 
would  afford  enough  revenue  to  make  the  fortune  of  such  as 
you.  You  see,  then,  that  the  heir  and  the  estate  of  Labeo  are 
safe  in  my  hands.  He  leaves  his  son  this  estates  and  fifty 
slaves :  I  will  leave  him  more  than  twenty  estates  and  ten 
thousand  slaves. 

"  You  are  a  cunning  scoundrel,  but  you  have  not  managed 
well.  It  was  your  duty,  as  a  scheming  knave,  to  find  out  all 
about  me.  You  v/ould  then  have  tried  to  get  my  good  opinion. 
You  made  a  great  mistake  when  you  dared  to  treat  with  in- 
solence the  owner  of  millions.  I  could  have  done  better  for 
you  than  even  Tigellinus ;  for  if  you  had  tried,  you  might  have 
cheated  me  with  impunity.     You  can't  cheat  him. 

"  See,  too,  what  a  double  fool  you  have  been.  You  think 
you  are  the  favourite  and  minion  of  Tigellinus.  You  know 
that  your  patron,  to  oblige  a  man  of  my  wealth,  would  have  you 
crucified  to-morrow.     Don't  you  know,  or  have  you  forgotten, 


THE  SYRIAN  LEARNS  A  LESSON. 


95 


what  wealth  can  do  in  Rome  1  Don't  you  know  that  this  new 
patron  of  yours  would  sacrifice  a  thousand  such  as  you,  if  by 
doing  so  he  could  get  into  the  good  graces  of  the  master  of 
millions,  and  hope  for  even  a  share  of  his  will  ? " 

The  Syrian  had  listened  to  Cineas  with  deep  and  varied 
feelings.  From  the  first,  he  had  looked  upon  him  as  a  Greek 
of  noble  birth  perhaps,  but  like  most  Greeks,  of  limited  means. 
So  many  Greek  adventurers  filled  Rome,  that  the  very  name 
had  become  synon)rmous  with  pressing  want  and  clever 
knavery.  He  thought  that  Cineas  had  come  with  an  eye  to 
this  estate. 

To  his  amazement  and  utter  confusion,  he  saw  what  a  fool 
he  had  been.  At  first  he  did  not  believe  his  assertion,  but  re- 
garded it  all  as  a  vain  boast.  But  when  Cineas  threw  out  at 
him  the  name  of  Tigellinus — a  name  already  dreaded  by  all — 
when  he  mentioned  it  so  slightingly,  with  such  an  air  of  calm 
superiority,  then  he  felt  that  Cineas  must  have  all  the  wealth 
and  power  which  he  claimed.  Then  he  saw  the  extent  of  his 
folly.  Cineas  had  mentioned  the  very  thing  which  most  of  all 
overpowered  his  mind.  Wealth  was  his  god.  The  powerful 
controller  of  millions  was  to  him  almost  superhuman.  His 
whole  manner  changed.  His  fdce  assumed  an  expression  ot 
the  deepest  and  most  abject  humility.  Even  Cineas  was 
amazed  at  the  change.  " 

"  Noble  Cineas,"  said  he,  bowing  down  low  before  him,  "  I 
have  severely  offended  you.  If  I  can  hope  for  pardon  from 
you,  I  most  earnestly  implore  it.     Hear  me, — 

"  My  whole  offence  was  what  you  call  my  insolence  to  your 
friend.  Alas  !  I  knew  not  that  he  was  your  friend.  He  came, 
— and  you  will  forgive  me  if  I  say  that  he  was  a  man  of  no  very 
majestic  or  lordly  air,  such  as  your  friend  might  be, — he  came, 
and  fiercely  ordered  me  about,  as  though  I  were  his  slavp.  My 
quick  temper  rose.  He  beat  me,  and  this  maddened  me.  I 
even  forgot  myself  in  your  presence,  and  most  humbly  do  I 


\ 


96 


THE  SYRIAN  LEARNS  A  LESSON. 


14 


ii  f 


beg  forgiveness  for  the  momentary  slight.     I  had  been  severely 
beaten,  and  was  made  mad  with  rage.  ' 

"  Alas !  I  have  no  power  with  Tigellinus,  and  know  not 
what  you  mean.  I  know  well  that  a  man  like  you  can  do  what 
you  please  with  a  poor  man  like  me.  Spare  me  !  My  life  is 
in  your  hands.     On  my  knees,  I  ask  that  life  of  you." 

And  Hegio,  in  his  abject  submission,  actually  fell  down  and 
clasped  the  knees  of  Cineas. 

His  touch  affected  Cineas  like  that  of  a  reptile. 

"  Rise,"  said  he,  coldly ;  "  I  don't  want  your  life.  I'm  glad 
that  you  understand  me  so  well  as  to  know  that  I  could  easily 
destroy  it  if  I  wished.     But  I  don't  wish  it." 

Hegio  rose  and  overwhelmed  him  with  his  thanks. 

"  Hear  me,"  said  Cipeas,  "  and  then  go.  As  I  am  entering 
upon  the  care  of  this  estate,  I  wish  to  know  how  its  affairs  have 
been  since  Labeo  left.  Make  up  full  accounts  of  everything. 
Present  them  to  me.  Beware  how  you  falsify  anything.  For 
I  declare  to  you  that  if  I  suspect  a  single  statement,  I  will  have 
everything  examined ;  and  woe  be  to  you  if  ever  it  comes  to 
that!    Now  go!" 

Hegio  attempted  to  speak. 

"Give  me  time — " 

"  Time  ?  Oh,  I  will  not  hurry  you.  Take  a  month  or  twa 
Only  remember  what  I  have  said,  and  beware  !    Now  go !" 

And  Hegio,  bowing  low,  left  the  room  with  a  face  of  agony. 


VIII. 


44 


^^t  Pashr/' 


HMONG  the  many  estates  adjoining  that  of  Labeo  was 
one  belonging  to  Aulus  Plautius,  a  man  of  high 
rank,  who  had  made  the  first  conquests  in  Britain 
under  the  Emperor  Claudius.  He  had  been  gov- 
ernor there ;  and  his  conquests  were  extended  by  others  until 
the  revolt.  He  had  seen  hard  service,  and  knew  the  Britons 
thoroughly.  Helena  had  become  acquainted  with  his  wife  on 
her  first  arrival  here ;  but  sorrow  and  sickness  kept  her  much 
at  home,  so  that  there  had  not  been  much  intercourse  with 
them. 

Her  name  was  Pomponia  Graecina.  She  was  a  lady  of  noble 
lineage  and  nobler  character.  While  the  nurse  was  slowly  re- 
covering, Helena  was  one  day  surprised  and  pleased  to  see 
Pomponia  coming  on  a  visit.  Apart  from  the  pleasure  which 
she  felt  at  seeing  her,  she  had  also  a  faint  hope  that  some  news 
might  have  been  received  from  Britain.  After  the  customary 
sa  utations,  and  some  conversation  of  a  general  nature,  Pom- 
ponia remarked, — 

"  I  need  not  ask  you  if  you  feel  anxious  about  your  husband. 
I  know  well  what  it  is  to  have  such  distress,  for  my  husband 
fought  against  them,  as  you  know ;  but  at  the  same  time,  dear 
friend,  I  think  there  is  every  reason  for  hope." 

She  then  went  on  to  tell  Helena  much  that  was  in  the 
highest  degree  comforting.     She  pointed  out  the  peculiarities  o( 
lia»)  7 


fur 


; 


98 


"  THE  MASTER. 


the  Britons,  their  sudden  attacks,  their  jealousies,  and  private 
feuds,  their  tendency  to  fall  away  from  any  common  cause  after 
a  short  period.  She  affirmed  that  her  own  husband  thought 
there  was  not  the  slightest  cause  of  fear  for  the  army  of  Sueto- 
nius; but  that  with  any  kind  of  generalship  at  all  it  would 
inevitably  overthrow  the  Britons  and  take  vengeance  upon  them. 

These  words  from  such  a  source  had  much  more  effect  than 
anything  that  had  been  said  to  Helena.  They  reassured  her. 
Aulus  certainly  knew,  if  any  one  could,  and  his  opinion  was 
now  worth  much  to  her. 

Pomponia  was  pleased  to  see  the  visible  effect  of  her  words 
in  the  heightened  animation  which  at  once  appeared  ;n  Helena. 

"  Deal  friend,"  said  she,  "  the  period  when  my  husband  was 
absent  was  the  most  temarkable  in  my  life.  Never  shall  I 
forget  it  During  his  wars  communication  was  sometimes  in- 
terrupted and  I  was  harassed  by  terrible  anxiety.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  do  or  where  to  go."  • 

"  And  how  did  it  end  1  what  happened  ? "  asked  Helena,  as 
Pomponia  paused. 

"  I  used  to  offer  up  vows  incessantly  for  my  husband's  safe 
return.  But  the  gods  of  our  religion  always  appeared  in  a 
fearful  light  to  me.  I  did  not  believe  the  ordinary  legends 
about  them ;  but  I  had  no  other  knowledge  of  them  than  this. 
I  acted  from  a  kind  of  superstition,  and  felt  all  the  time  that  it 
was  superstition  only.  My  vows  were  made  to  a  set  of  im- 
moral demons,  or  else  they  were  made  to  chance,  or  nothing 
at  all.  This  was  that  which  troubled  me.  But  perhaps  I  am 
wearying  you  while  thus  talking  about  myself." 

"  Wearying  me  1  Oh,  no,"  cried  Helena ;  "  I  long  to  hear  it 
all.  What  mercy  has  sent  you  to  me  1  I  have  felt  all  these 
doubts,  though  of  a  somewhat  different  nature,  and  even  now 
am  longing  for  something  better  than  the  common  religion,  or 
the  Greek  philosophy." 

"  Dear  friend,"  said  Pomponia,  with  deep  emotion,  "  per- 


/• 


••  THE  MASTER." 


99 


haps  you  may  be  benefited  by  my  story.  I  knew  nothing  of 
philosophy.  I  was  but  a  simple  woman,  with  no  more  than 
the  common  training — but  I  will  go  on.  My  maid  used  often 
to  notice  my  distress,  and  at  length  perceived  the  cause  of  it, 
and  all  my  wishes  and  desires. 

"  This  maid  was  a  Cyrenean,  and  had  been  with  me  for  some 
time.  Her  religion  was  altogether  different  from  mine.  I  never 
thought  much  about  it,  for  every  race  has  its  own  superstitions ; 
and  I  fancied  that  hers  were  like  all  the  rest. 

"  But  I  soon  had  reason  to  see  differently.  Gradually,  and 
with  the  deepest  respect,  she  began  to  speak  about  her  religion. 
My  attention  was  aroused  and  my  interest  excited.  There  was 
something  in  it  that  deeply  impressed  me.  She  spoke  of  one 
Supreme  Being — the  True  God,  who  rules  all  and  regards  all 
things.  She  told  how  this  One  created  men,  but  they  sinned 
against  him.  She  told  how  he  pitied  them  even  after  they 
had  sinned,  and  formed  plans  for  their  safety.  She  went  on  to 
tell  me  of  many  messengers  whom  God  had  sent  to  the  world, — 
men  of  whom  we  in  Greece  and  Rome  have  never  heard,  but 
who  yet  gave  his  messages  to  men  in  writings  which  yet  exist. 
Above  all,  they  told  how  One  was  coming  who  would  make  all 
things  plain,  and  show  to  the  world  a  new  religion  and  a  new 
hope. 

**  She  had  a  scroll  of  many  of  these  wonderful  messages,  from 
which  she  read  words  so  full  of  love  and  mercy,  so  amazing  in 
their  meaning,  and  filled  with  such  sublime  ideas,  that  I  felt  in 
my  very  heart  that  they  must  come  from  heaven.  Love  and 
mercy  from  the  great  Deity !  This  was  the  thought  that  came 
into  my  mind,  to  remain  there  for  ever.  Then  my  maid  read  to 
me  the  strange  announcements  and  prophecies  of  One  who  was 
coming.  At  last  she  read  me  a  book  which  told  that  he  had 
come." 

"  That  he  has  come  I"  cried  Helena,  clasping  her  hands,  and 
turning  to  Pomponia  more  closely,  with  streaming  eyes.     "  Oh, 


100 


"  THE  MASTER." 


\   r. 


'■'  'i 


P     '  U:' 


how  your  words  sink  into  my  soul !    Who  is  he,  and  when  did 
he  come  1" 

,  "  That  book  which  my  maid  read  to  me  told  a  wonderful 
story  of  One  who  became  man  for  our  sakes,  and  lived  in  the 
world  for  years,  and  was  finally  put  to  death." 

"Puttodeach!" 

Helena  repeated  the  words  with  an  awful  look. 

"  Ah !  dear  friend,  you  have  yet  to  learn  the  most  wonderful 
story  that  ever  was  told — how  he  came  and  was  born  on  earth ; 
how  he  lived  and  taught ;  what  loving  words  he  said ;  what 
gentleness  and  infinite  pity  dwelt  in  all  his  words  and  acts; 
what  immortal  love  sustained  him  through  all  that  life  of  his. 
You  have  yet  to  learn  " — and  Pomponia's  voice  sank  to  a 
lower  and  more  solemn  tone — "  how  he  was  betrayed,  and  tried 
for  his  life,  and  beaten,  and  scourged,  and  reviled ;  and,  after 
suffering  all  possible  indignities,  how  he  was  crucified." 

These  words  thrilled  through  Helena.  They  were  new  to 
her.  She  had  heard  of  the  Christians,  and  had  known  that 
they  worshipped  One  who  had  been  crucified ;  but  never  had 
thought  of  the  full  meaning  of  that  fact.  She  had  believed 
them  to  be  an  obscure  and  ignorant  sect  j  and  until  she  knew 
that  the  nurse  was  one  of  them,  she  thought  them  immoral. 
But  now  their  belief  was  presented  by  one  whom  she  revered, 
in  a  way  that  filled  her  with  mingled  wonder  and  horror.  Was 
this  crucified  One  the  One  to  whom  she  was  seeking  access  1 
Was  this  the  One  whom  she  had  sought  so  long  1 

"  I  will  not  tell  this  story  in  my  weak  words,"  said  Pomponia; 
"  but  let  me  give  you  that  precious  book,  where  all  is  told.  I 
will  bring  it  to  you.  You  can  read  it  then.  It  is  for  you.  All 
that  I  found  in  it,  when  my  maid  gave  it  to  me,  you  can  find 
in  it, — peace,  hope,  and  blessings  beyond  all  thought." 

"  Oh,  bring  me  that  book,  if  you  have  such  a  book,"  said 
Helena.  "  It  is  now  the  one  idea  and  hope  of  my  life  to  know 
something  of  him." 


"  THE  master:' 


101 


1.  I 

All 
find 

said 
Lnow 


"  Ah,  dearest,  in  that  book  he  says,  '  Learn  of  me,  and  ye 
shall  find  rest  for  your  souls.'  There  I  found  rest  for  mine,  and 
have  known  it  ever  since." 

"  And  was  this  the  trouble  that  you  fell  into  afterwards,  when 
your  husband  made  that  examination  1"  asked  Helena,  alluding 
to  an  event  well  known  in  Rome. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other.  "  When  he  returned,  I  soon  told 
him  all.  He  questioned  me  somewhat  about  my  belief,  but 
did  not  take  much  interest  in  it.  He  seemed  to  respect  the 
elevated  and  noble  precepts  of  this  religion.  But  some  of  his 
friends  and  some  members  of  the  family  took  offence  because 
I  would  no  longer  take  part  in  the  usual  services  of  the  state 
religion,  and  endeavoured  to  excite  ill-will  against  me.  They 
circulated  gross  slanders  about  me,  and  caused  me  great  grief. 
My  husband  found  this  out,  and  determined  to  put  an  end  to 
it.  He  summoned  a  number  of  relatives,  and  tried  me  in  their 
presence.  I  gave  a  full  account  of  my  religion  and  its  precepts. 
My  husband  gave  me  a  triumphant  acquittal,  and  since  then  I 
have  been  molested  no  more  in  that  way.  I  have  my  share  of 
afflictions,  and  expect  more.  Yet  I  put  my  trust  in  him  who 
has  himself  suffered  so  deeply ;  and  in  him  I  have  found  rest 
for  my  soul." 

There  was  a  deep  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  when  further 
conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Cineas.  He 
greeted  Pomponia  with  deep  respect,  and  said, — 

"  I  hope  you  have  succeeded  in  driving  away  some  of  the 
anxiety  of  my  sister.  You  have  had  the  same  fears  in  former 
years,  and  have  found  that  they  were  groundless." 

**  Oh  yes,"  said  Helena  j  "  since  she  has  come,  I  feel  as 
though  part,  at  least,  of  the  heavy  load  of  anxiety  had  been 
lifted  from  my  mind." 

"  As  I  was  coming  in,  I  heard  you  speak  about  *  rest  for 
your  soul.'  Do  not  let  me  interrupt  such  a  conversation.  Or, 
if  it  is  private,  let  me  retire."  ' 


103 


"  THE  MASTER.'^ 


But  they  refused  to  let  him  go,  and  insisted  that  he  should 
stay. 

"  Be  it  so,  then,"  said  Cineas ;  "  and  if  I  stay,  I  will  take  my 
part  in  the  same  conversation.  Have  I  ever  told  you,  dear 
sister,  the  concluding  events  in  the  life  of '  the  master  '1" 

"No." 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  would  like  to,hear  it,  I  will  tell  it  now. 
It  also  explains,  to  some  extent,  the  cause  of  my  own  journey 
to  Rome,  and  will  let  you  into  one  great  purpose  of  my  life. 
So  I  will  make  a  full  confession,"  said  he,  smilingly ;  "  and  I 
will  make  no  apology,  for  I  know  that  anything  about  '  the 
master '  will  not  be  tiresome,  at  least,  to  you,  my  sister." 

So  saying,  he  began, — 

"  You  well  know,  dear*  sister,  iiow  pure  and  elevated  were  the 
doctrines  of  our  sublime  teacher.  But  you,  noble  Pomponia, 
may  not  know  this,  and  so  I  will  explain  them. 

"  At  the  outset  of  his  career,  he  had  decided  that  all  the  best 
doctrines  extant  were  comprised  within  the  writings  of  Plato, 
and  the  best  example  for  man  could  be  found  in  the  life  and 
character  of  Socrates.  These  writings  were  his  study,  and  this 
life  his  model.  In  that  life  he  saw  four  great  principles,  which 
he  always  sought  to  obey  in  his  own  life,  and  to  urge  upon  his 
disciples.     These  were, — 

"  I  St,  Self-denial. 

"  2nd,  Doing  good  to  all. 

"  3rd,  Constant  care  of  the  souL 

"  4th,  Loyalty  to  God. 

"  If  you  have  read  of  Socrates,  you  will  see  that,  in  all  his 
words,  and  particularly  in  his  *  Apology,'  he  lays  chief  stress  on 
these.  He  used  to  urge  us  to  self-denial  by  quoting  the  pre- 
cepts of  Socrates  about  temperance,  chastity,  and  frugality. 
He  used  to  stimulate  us  to  a  life  of  philanthropy  by  reminding 
us  how  Socrates  went  about  doing  good, — for  thirty  years 
employing  himself  in  the  effort  to  benefit  all  kinds  and  classes 


'  THE  master:' 


103 


of  men  ;  neglecting  his  private  interests,  and  giving  himself  up 
altogether  to  others.  The  care  of  the  soul  was  recommended 
as  the  one  great  purpose  of  life,  by  which  alone  we  could  pre- 
pare for  the  spiritual  life  which  follows  this  mortal  one.  '  The 
soul,  the  soul,'  he  used  to  say,  *  how  it  shall  become  most  per- 
fect— this  is  the  only  aim  worthy  of  an  immortal  being.'  Ah  ! 
how  our  hearts  used  to  thijll,  as  he  discoursed  on  the  nature  of 
God,  and  showed  that  the  soul  was  like  him  in  its  nature,  and 
o"ght  to  be  like  him  in  feeling  and  character  !  How  our  hearts 
used  to  thrill,  as  he  pointed  out  the  best  example  of  the  soul 
prepared  to  meet  its  God,  by  describing  the  last  hours  of 
Socrates  and  his  last  discourse,  -"hen  he  held  his  disciples 
enchained  by  his  divine  words  all  through  that  day,  and  then, 
with  hope  and  joy  and  enthusiasm,  drank  the  poison  and  lay 
down — to  do  what  1 — to  die  ]  No ;  but  to  meet  his  God  I 
Then  he  used  to  turn  from  this  triumphant  scene  to  his  memor- 
able trial,  and  declare  that  the  sublimest  period  in  his  life  was 
not  that  glorious  death,  but  rather  those  concluding  words  of 
his  'Apology,'  in  which  he  forgives  his  enemies.  Here,  he 
said,  was  the  highest  point  ever  attained  by  the  soul  of  man  in 
its  effort  to  become  like  its  Maker. 

"  Above  all,  *  the  master '  used  to  insist  on  loyalty  to  God, — 
absolute  submission  to  his  x.ill.  The  lofty  language  of  Socrates 
shows  what  ought  to  be  the  attitude  of  every  soul.  He  told 
bis  judges  that  God  placed  him  in  Athens  to  preach  to  every 
man  to  take  care  of  his  soul,  and  he  would  die  rather  than  quit 
his  post.  He  affirmed  that  he  would  obey  God  rather  than 
man;  and  would  refuse  acquittal  if  it  were  granted  on  condition 
that  he  should  be  faithless  to  him.  It  was  this,  the  master ' 
affirmed,  which  was  the  highest  triumph  of  this  principle,  that 
a  man  should  thus  identify  himself  with  God,  and  think  and 
feel  and  act  as  if  always  united  with  him. 

"  It  was  in  this  way  that  *  the  master '  understood  '  the 
divine  voice'  of  Socrates.     He  thought  that  God  had  mani- 


♦I 


i 


I 


'ii  { 


\  t 


[04 


••  Tj/f:  master:' 


fested  himself  to  his  follower;  and  so  it  became  the  highest 
purpose  of  his  own  life  to  attain  to  something  like  that  divine 
presence  in  which  it  was  the  lot  of  Socrates  to  live.  This  was 
the  purpose  of  his  life,  and  he  sought  to  inspire  all  his  disciples 
with  his  own  spirit.  It  was  for  this  end  that  he  took  for  his 
prayer  that  marvellous  choral  song  of  Sophocles, — 

"  <  Oh  that  it  were  my  lot 
To  attain  to  perfect  holinest  in  every  word  and  deed  I 
'  For  which  there  are  laid  down  laws  sublime, 

Which  have  their  origin  in  highest  heaver ; 
Of  which  God  it  the  father  only, 
Which  perishable  human  nature  has  not  produced, 
Nor  can  oblivion  ever  lull  them  to  sleep  ;— 
Great  is  the  Divinity  within  them. 
Nor  ever  waxeth  old  !' 

"  In  the  words  of  the  same  song,  he  maintained  that  self- 
love  and  the  pride  of  our  nature  was  the  greatest  obstacle  to 
this  fulfilment  of  God's  law,  which  is  written  in  our  hearts;  and 
selected  the  words  at  the  close  of  the  antistrophe  as  the  best 
summing  up  of  all, — 

"  '  Never  will  I  cease  to  takr  my  God  as  my  guardian.' 

"  But  about  ten  years  ago  a  remarkable  circumstance  oc- 
curred, which  gave  a  death-blow  to  his  hopes,  and  filled  his 
mind  with  gloom.     It  was  the  case  of  Philo." 

Here  Cineas  repeated  to  Pomponia  the  story  which  he  had 
already  told  to  his  sister ;  the  narrative  of  which  excited  the 
strongest  feelings  of  that  lady,  especially  when  she  heard  of  the 
nurse,  and  her  sickness  ever  since.  "  She  is  one  of  you," 
whispered  Helena, — "  a  Christian  ;  she  has  found  peace — she 
trusts  in  your  God — she  has  promised  that  I  should  learn  of 
him."  Pomponia  pressed  her  hand,  and  looked  unutterable 
things ;  while  Cineas,  too  much  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts 
to  notice  this  conversation,  went  on  with  his  story. 

"  Here,  then,  was  a  case  which  showed  that  all  his  philosophy 
was  useless.     It  became  a  problem  which  disturbed  his  life, 


"  THE  master:* 


»0S 


and  darkened  his  soul.  It  was  the  dark  spectacle  of  the  foulest 
sin,  followed  by  the  gnawings  of  insatiable  remorse.  It  is  a 
wonder  that  this  never  occurred  to  him  before.  Perhaps  it 
did ;  but  then  it  was  only  theory,  and  it  was  this  one  fearful 
fact  on  which  his  philosophy  was  wrecked. 

"  How  can  God  pardon  sin  1  This  was  his  question.  He 
had  fondly  hoped  that  Plato  was  sufficient  for  every  case.  He 
thought  before  that  to  turn  away  from  sin — to  reform — was 
enough.  He  now  learned  that  there  is  the  distress  of  the  soul, 
which  no  reform  of  life  can  of  itself  destroy.  He  had  to 
acknowledge  that  here  Plato  failed.  He  had  nothing  for  su^h 
a  case.     And  if  Plato  failed  what  others  were  there  ] 

"  He  knew  of  none. 

"  He  gave  himself  up  to  deeper  thought  and  meditation ;  but 
the  despondency  of  his  mind  affected  his  health.  It  was  to 
nim  as  though  the  foundation  on  which  all  his  hopes  had  been 
reared  had  crumbled  to  dust  beneath  him. 

"  As  I  was  his  favourite  disciple  before,  so  now  I  became  his 
sole  associate.  For  he  gave  up  teaching  now,  altogether, 
declaring  that  he  knew  nothing  and  had  nothing  to  teach. 

" '  The  greatest  blessing  which  God  can  give  to  man,'  he  said 
to  me  once,  *  is  the  knowledge  of  truth.  But  how  could  that 
knowledge  come  1  Man  cannot  find  it  out  for  himself.  Plato 
shows  all  that  can  be  learned  by  man  himself — the  highest 
knowledge  that  he  can  possibly  attain  to.  No  philosopher  since 
Plato  has  gone  further  than  he,  or  ^  mnd  out  anything  in  addi- 
tion.' He  reminded  me  of  that  passage  in  th^,*  Phado  with 
regard  to  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  where  Plato  makes 
Simmias  virtually  confess  that  man  can  only  go  to  a  certain 
point,  and  beyond  that,  he  needs  some  help  from  a  higher 
source.  *  For  we  ought,'  says  Simmias,  '  with  respect  to  these 
things,  either  to  learn  from  others  how  they  stand,  or  to  dis- 
cover them  for  ourselves  ;  or,  if  both  these  are  impossible,  then, 
taking  the  best  and  the  most  irrefragable  of  human  reasonings, 


I''  I 


'A  <\. 


1 06 


"  THE  master:' 


and  embarking  on  this,  as  one  who  risks  himself  on  a  raft,  so 
to  sail  through  life,  unless  one  could  be  carried  more  safely, 
and  with  less  risk,  on  a  surer  conveyance  or  on  some  Divine 
Word: 

"  This  passage  he  used  often  to  quote,  till  we  both  used  the 
term  as  a  well-known  formula,  expressing  some  power  from 
heaven,  greatly  to  be  desired,  which  should  make  all  things 
plain. 

"  But,  as  the  months  passed  on,  he  grew  feebler,  and  there 
was  nothing  that  could  rouse  him  from  his  deep  depression.  ] 
saw,  at  last,  that  he  was  dying. 

"  And  so,  at  last,  he  passed  away,"  said  Cineas,  in  a  scarce 
audible  voice.  "  He  left  me — my  friend,  my  more  than  father  j 
and,  as  he  lay  in  my  arm;  in  that  last  hour,  the  last  words  that 
I  heard  him  speak  were, — 

"'O  God,  reveal  thyself!'" 

There  was  silence  for  a  long  time.  Cineas  was  the  first  to 
break  it. 

"  Alas,"  said  he,  "  all  life  and  all  religion  are  full  of  perplex- 
ity !  What  can  make  it  vanish  ?  Never  can  it,  till  we  arrive  at 
tiiat  other  life  in  which  we  all  believe.  Then  we  shall  know  the 
truth.  Do  you  remember  those  noble  lines  of  Pindar,  Helena, 
that  we  used  to  sing  when  we  were  together  in  our  dear  home 
in  Athens  1  Let  us  sing  them  again,  dearest  sister,  and  carry 
ou.'  hearts  back  to  childhood,  and  our  thoughts  up  to  heaven." 

At  this  invitation,  Helena  rose,  and  took  a  lyre  that  lay  upon 
one  of  the  seats.  Then,  after  a  brief  prelude,  she  sang  the 
following,  while  Cineas  accompanied  her : — 

"  In  the  happy  fields  of  light, 

Where  Phoebus  with  an  equal  ray 
Illuminates  the  balmy  night, 

And  gilds  the  cloudless  day  ; 
In  peaceful,  unmolested  joy 
The  good  their  smiling  hours  employ. 
Them  no  uneasy  wants  constrain 

To  vex  the  ungrateful  soil, 


'' THE  master:'  10| 

I  To  tempt  the  dangers  of  the  billowy  main, 

I  Or  break  their  strength  with  unabated  toil.     ^^^ 

A  frail,  disastrous  being  to  maintain ;  1 

But,  in  their  joyous,  calm  abodes, 
'  The  recompense  of  justice  they  receive, 

And,  in  the  fellowship  of  gods, 
Without  a  tear  eternal  ages  live." 

"  *  Without  a  tear  eternal  ages  live ! ' "  repeated  Helena. 
"  There  are  no  words  in  all  our  literature  equal  to  these.  Oh, 
for  that  life  1     But  how  can  we  find  it  1 " 

"  God  will  lead  us,  dear  sister,"  said  Cineas. 

And,  as  Pomponia  looked  at  these  two  with  their  earnest 
hearts,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  breathed  a  prayer  that 
God  would  indeed  guide  them  to  that  knowledge  of  himself 
which  is  life  eternal. 


1=   I'i! 


IX. 


Cj^i  '§itimn. 


u  t' 


K    " 


e    ,' 


u 
if 

i 


FEW  v/ecks  afterward  they  were  seated  in  the  room, 
when  an  unusual  disturbance  suddenly  arose  out 
side.  There  was  the  quick  trarnp  of  horse-hoofs 
and  the  shout  of  the  household  servants.  Helena 
turned  pale  as  death,  and,  starting  up,  staggered  toward  the 
door,  like  one  in  a  dream,  murmuring  some  inarticulai:e  words. 
Cineas  dashed  past  her,  and  hurried  out,  but  was  encountered 
by  a  man  in  the  costume  of  a  Roman  officer,  who  rushed  into 
the  room,  and,  without  saying  a  word,  caught  Helena  in  his 
arms.  He  strained  her  to  his  heart,  as  though  he  v/ould  never 
part  with  her  again.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  All  istood  mute. 
Sulpicia  looked  earnestly  at  the  new-comer,  and  all  her  boasted 
Roman  fortitude  gave  way  completely.  Large  tears  flowed 
down  her  face,  and,  clasping  her  hands,  she  looked  upwrd  in 
ecstasy.  Helena  did  nothing  but  weep  and  sob  and  cling  to 
the  one  whom  she  loved  so  fondly.  At  last  her  husband  quietly 
disengaged  himself,  and  fondly  embraced  his  venerable  mother. 
Then  he  looked  around  for  his  son, 

"  Where  is  Murcus  1 "  said  he,  and  that  was  the  first  word  he 
spoke. 

**  There,"  said  Helena,  pointing  to  where  Marcus  stood. 

The  little  boy  stood  at  the  end  of  the  room,  with  a  pale  lace  and 
a  strange  mixture  of  joy  and  bashfulness  in  his  expression.  Tears 
stood  in  his  large,  spiritual  eyes,  which  were  fixed  on  his  father. 


r 


THE  RETURN. 


109 


he 


"  My  darling  I  "  cried  his  father,  and,  seizing  him  in  his  arms, 
he  covered  him  with  kisses.  Marcus  clung  to  him,  and  hid  hi? 
face  on  his  shoulder  for  a  moment,  then  took  another  long  look 
at  him,  and  hugged  him  again  and  again,  twining  his  arms  about 
his  neck.  Labeo  then,  carrying  his  son  in  his  arms,  went  to 
greet  Cineas,  who  had  just  entered.  Their  greeting  showed 
their  warm-hearted  affection.  / 

All  was  joy.  Labeo  had  a  kind  word  for  all.  He  gave 
orders  for  universal  festivity  for  three  days,  and  sacrifices,  and 
then  came  to  the  room  to  answer  all  the  questions  that  every 
one  was  eager  to  ask  him. 

He  was  very  tall,  with  a  magnificent  head  and  strongly  marked 
Roman  features.  His  frame  was  most  powerful — only  less  than 
gigantic;  and  his  whole  mien  and  tone  showed  that  he  was 
accustomed  to  command.  In  him  there  was  less  intellect  than 
in  Cineas,  but  more  force,  or,  at  least,  more  appearance  of  it. 
He  was  t'  e  ideal  of  the  Roman — strong,  resolute,  and  self-con- 
tained— a  representative  man  of  the  race  which  had  conquered 
the  world. 

Yet  this  strong  man — this  Roman — had  a  depth  of  affection 
which  cannot  easily  be  described.  All  his  heart  seemed  to 
yearn  over  his  wife  and  child.  He  n«^ver  let  Marcus  leave  his 
arms,  but  held  him  there  while  he  sat,  and  carried  him  about 
while  he  walked.  Marcus,  too,  returned  his  father's  affection 
with  equal  intensity.  He  seemed  to  rest  in  his  father's  arms 
in  perfect  peace,  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  nothing  more  to 
wish  for.  Helena  sat  on  one  side  of  him,  clasping  his  arm,  and 
pressing  it  to  her  heart ;  while  Sulpicia  sat  gravely  on  the  other, 
not  yet  having  regained  all  ner  self-control,  but  often  stealing  a 
look,  such  as  a  mother  only  can  give  to  her  idolized  son,  with 
the  usual  stern  expression  of  her  face  softened  into  a  milder 
one. 

Labeo  had  much  to  tell  them.  He  had  emerged  from  behind 
clouds  and  darkness  into  the  light  of  home  :  he  had  come  back 


tio 


THE  RETURN. 


1 


as  though  from  the  dead ;  and  the  events  of  that  dark  period 
were  full  of  interest  to  all. 

He  told  about  the  march  of  his  army  to  Mona,  their  de- 
struction of  the  stronghold  of  the  druids,  and  the  confidence 
which  they  all  felt  that  the  country  was  completely  subju- 
gated. He  described  the  surprise  and  horror  that  filled  every 
mind  when  they  heard  of  the  rising  of  the  Britons,  and  the 
fierce  thirst  for  vengeance  that  rose  in  the  minds  of  the 
soldiers. 

"  Although  the  accounts  were  exaggerated  by  fugitives,  yet 
none  of  us  for  a  moment  ever  doubted  that  we  could  restore 
affairs,  and  punish  the  enemy.  We  at  once  marched  back 
across  the  island  to  London,  only  meeting  with  scattered  bands 
of  barbarians.  Here  Sudtonius  at  first  intended  to  collect  the 
scattered  bands  of  our  soldiers  from  different  garrisons ;  but  we 
heard  that  an  immense  army  of  Britons  was  approaching. 
Suetonius  was  determined  to  gain  a  decisive  victory,  and  so  he 
resolved  to  fall  back,  till  he  received  more  reinforcements.  We 
gave  up  the  town,  but  allowed  all  the  inhabitants,  who  wished, 
to  come  with  us.  The  Britons  came  after  us  as  we  fell  back. 
At  last,  all  the  scattered  soldiers  had  joined  us,  and  our  army 
amounted  to  ten  thousand  men.  Then  Suetonius  resolved  to 
fight 

"  Ke  chose  a  spot  surrounded  by  woods,  with  a  narrow  open- 
ing, and  a  thick  forest  in  the  rear.  An  open  plain  v/as  in  front. 
Here  the  Britons  found  us,  and  prepared  to  attack.  They 
brought  an  incredible  multitude,  and  were  so  sure  of  victory 
that  they  placed  their  wives  and  children  in  waggons  within  sight, 
where  they  might  behold  the  valour  of  their  husbands.  This  is 
a  common  practice  with  these  Northeia  barbarians;  for  their 
women  encourage  them  by  their  cries. 

"  Boadicea  went  round  among  them  in  her  chariot,  with  her 
two  daughters,  telling  her  people  of  her  wrongs,  and  urging  them 
to  vengeance.     The  Britons  were  all  wild  with  disorder,  dancing 


THE  RETURN. 


Ill 


and  gesticulating  violently.  We  were  all  eager,  but  calm  ;  foi 
we  knew  how  it  would  end.  j 

"  The  Britons  at  last  came  on  all  together,  wildly  shouting, 
and  showering  their  arrows  against  us.  They  fell  upon  us  at 
the  narrow  opening,  and  soon  were  thrown  into  confusion  by 
their  own  ardour.  Seeing  this,  Suetonius  drew  us  up  in  the 
form  of  a  wedge,  and  ordered  us  to  charge.  We  went  down 
into  the  wild  crowd  with  irresistible  fury.  Everything  gave  way 
before  the  solid  masses  of  our  heavy-armed  legions.  The  light 
troops  followed.  The  cavalry  charged  into  the  midst  of  the 
enemy,  cutting  them  to  pieces  everywhere.  The  Britons,  who 
were  always  confused,  now  became  tangled  in  a  dense  mass, 
and  filled  with  the  wildest  disorder.  At  last,  they  turned  and 
fled.  But,  when  the  fugitives  reached  the  edge  of  the  plain, 
they  were  arrested.  There  a  line  of  waggons  was  drawn  up, 
and  on  the  waggons  stood  their  wives,  with  their  children,  like 
so  many  Bacchantes,  crying,  screaming,  imploring,  motioning 
their  husbands  back,  beating  their  breasts,  tearing  their  hair, 
and  cursing  the  men  for  cowards.  The  Britons  tried  to  rally, 
but  it  was  impossible.  Thousands  stood  their  ground,  fighting 
fiercely  till  the  last.  The  women  themselves  took  part  in  it, 
and  fought  even  with  the  waggon-poles.  But  after  all  it  was 
not  a  fight  \  it  was  a  slaughter.  Beside  those  waggons,  Camu- 
lodune,  London,  and  Verulam  were  well  avenged.  Men, 
women,  and  children  were  all  killed,  and  even  the  cattle  were 
sent  after  them.  Eighty  thousand  were  killed,  and  the  rest  of 
the  army  were  scattered  to  the  winds,  disorganized  and  terrified 
fugitives.  Yet,  in  the  whole  fight,  we  did  not  lose  over  four 
hundred  men." 

"  And  what  became  of  Boadiceal" 

"  After  trying  to  rally  her  men,  she  found  that  all  was  lost. 
She  then  drove  away  from  the  field  of  battle,  and  took  poison. 
Her  body  was  afterwards  found.  Never  was  there  more  terrible 
vengeance,  or  a  more  complete  victory. 


f 


r 


iia 


THE  RETURN. 


I 


*•  After  the  victory  I  was  selected  to  bring  the  laurelled  letters 
of  Suetonius  to  Caesar.  I  am  the  first  to  bring  the  joyful 
tidings  here.  I  arrived  here  last  night,  and  had  to  wait  for  an 
audience. 

"  When  I  was  brought  before  Caesar,  I  found  him  in  high 
good  humour.  He  had  just  heard  that  one  of  his  poems  had 
gained  a  prize  at  some  Greek  game.  His  first  words  to  me 
were, — 

"  *  Congratulate  me,  Labeo.  I  am  the  happiest  of  men.  I 
have  gained  the  lyric  prize !'  and  then  went  off  into  an  enthu- 
siastic eulogy  of  Grecian  taste  and  Grecian  literature.  At 
length  he  recollected  my  errand,  and  said — *  Your  message  has 
come  at  a  happy  time,  indeed.  I  defeat  the  Britons  and  gain 
the  lyric  prize  on  the  'same  day.  Can  anything  be  more 
auspicious?" 

"  I  murmured  some  assent  or  other,  but  he  did  not  listen, — 
something  in  my  attitude  seemed  to  strike  him  as  I  stood 
before  him.  He  looked  at  me  narrowly.  Then  he  rose  and 
walked  slowly  backward  and  then  forward,  holding  his  head  on 
one  side,  and  looking  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  piece  of  art. 

"  *  By  the  immortal  gods  !*  he  cried  at  last.  *  Dcn't  move 
for  your  life.  Accidental,  too.  Why,  I  declare  to  you,  I 
wouldn't  have  lost  that  attitude  for  ten  million  sesterces.  Don't 
move  for  your  life.     By  Jove  !  it  is  Hercules,  at  his  apotheosis.' 

"  He  then  summoned  one  of  his  attendants,  and  made  him 
draw  my  figure  in  its  peculiar  attitude ;  occasionally  giving 
directions,  and  all  the  time  charging  me  not  to  move. 

"  Then  he  resumed  his  seat,  and  looked  at  me  as  before, 
with  half-closed  eyes.  I  felt  much  embarrassed,  but  could  do 
nothing.  I  certainly  did  not  expect  to  excite  the  admiration 
of  Caesar  in  such  a  way. 

"  He  then  went  on  to  tell  me  that  he  was  having  a  colossal 
statue  made  representing  himself,  and  that  something  in  my 
attitude  had  suggested  the  very  thing  which  he  wished  for  his 


THE  RETURN. 


"3 


lis 


h 


statue.  While  talking  in  this  way  he  assured  me  that  I  must 
remain  in  the  palace.  He  would  give  me  a  part  in  the  house- 
hold service. 

"  I  contrived  to  insert  a  word  about  my  family,  and  my 
desire  to  see  them.  He  at  once  assented,  laughed,  and  said  I 
might  stay  as  long  as  I  liked ;  and  finally  asked  if  I  were  fond 
of  music,  and  whether  I  would  like  to  hear  the  piece  which 
had  gained  the  prize. 

"  I  assured  him  that  I  would. 

"  He  then  reverentially  took  a  lyre  that  was  near,  and  with 
far  more  seriousness  in  his  face  than  he  had  yet  exhibited, 
proceeded  to  sing  and  play  an  extraordinary  composition  which 
I  hardly  understood.  My  perplexity  showed  itself  in  my 
features ;  but  Caesar  thought  it  was  admiration,  and  was 
pleased.  I  do  not  know  now  how  I  could  have  got  out  of  it ; 
but  we  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  beautiful  girl,  who 
came  up  to  Caesar  with  much  familiarity,  and  the  air  of  a 
spoiled  child. 

"  *  How  tiresome  you  are  to  keep  me  waiting,'  she  said.  *  It 
is  two  hours.' 

"  *  Two  hours,'  cried  Caesar.  He  forgot  ail  about  me,  and, 
without  any  further  notice  of  me,  he  walked  away.  After  wait- 
ing a  short  time,  I  took  my  departure,  thinking  myself  very 
fortunate  in  the  moment  which  I  had  found  for  my  arrival." 

"And  didn't  he  ask  a  word  about  Britain,  or  the  battle  1" 
asked  Helena,  in  wonder. 

"  Not  a  word.  He  cares  nothing  for  Britain,  or  battles," 
said  Labeo,  with  a  smile.  "  But  what  a  lucky  thing  my  attitude 
was  !    I  will  certainly  be  promoted  now." 

There  appeared  to  be  a  general  desire  to  avoid  the  subject 
of  Caesar.  Each  one  had  his  own  thoughts,  and  those  thoughts 
were  not  always  fit  to  utter.  There  were  many  associations 
which  clung  to  the  name  of  Nero,  and  made  it  an  uncomfort* 
able  theme. 


'183) 


8 


114 


THE  RETURN. 


"  I  have  enough  stories  to  last  you  for  a  year,  little  boy," 
said  Labeo,  fondling  his  son.  "All  about  the  savages,  and 
their  wicker  boats  ;  and  how  they  paint  their  skins ;  and  their 
chariots  with  scythes  sticking  out  that  can  cut  a  man  in  two  j 
and  the  horrible  Druids  with  their  sacrifices.  We  will  sit  all 
day  under  the  plane-trees  and  talk,  and  you  will  learn  how 
Romans  fight." 

"  And  I  am  going  to  be  a  Roman  soldier,"  said  Marcus,  his 
eyes  glistening  with  pride,  "  like  my  brave  father ;  and  I'll  fight 
battles  too — some  day." 

Labeo  looked  with  fond  pride  on  his  little  boy.  That  boy 
was  a  thorough  Greek,  with  not  a  trace  of  the  Roman  about 
him,  with  the  spirituality,  the  delicacy,  and  the  sensitiveness  of 
his  mother.  Perhaps  this  dissimilarity  to  himself  only  made 
the  father  love  the  boy  more. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  Britain,"  said  Marcus,  nestling  closer  in 
his  father's  arms.  . 

"  Britain,"  said  Labeo,  "  oh,  it's  a  wonderful  country.  First, 
there  is  the  sea.  Every  day  it  rises  and  comes  up  in  a  great 
flood  all  along  the  shore,  and  then  all  the  water  goes  back 
again.  That  is  a  great  wonder,  for  there  is  nothing  like  it  here. 
Our  sea  is  still,  you  know." 

'*  Yes,"  said  Marcus.  "  I  saw  the  sea  rolling  in  once ;  and  I 
played  on  the  beach  all  the  day  till  it  went  back  again." 

"  Oh,  you  remember  that  day,  do  you  %  Well,  it  wasn't  very 
long  ago.  But  let  me  tell  you  some  more  wonders.  They  say 
that  far  up  in  the  north  there  is  a  place  where  in  the  summer 
time  it  is  always  light,  for  the  sun  does  not  go  down." 

"  Why,  where  does  it  go  to  ]" 

"  It  goes  behind  some  mountains,  I  suppose,"  said  Labeo, 
doubtfully;  "  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  nobody  could  ever  tell  where 
it  went  to.  And  then  again,  in  the  winter  it  is  dark  almost  all 
the  time." 

"Is  that  in  Britain?" 


THE  RETURN. 


"5 


beo, 
■here 
;t  all 


p 

"  No ;  this  is  a  country  far  away  from  liritain,  and  it  is 
called  Thule."  '       '       '  I 

"  Was  any  one  ever  there?" 

"No;  but  merchants  have  sailed  near  it,  but  they  could  not 
see  it  very  well,  on  account  of  snow-storms." 

"  I  suppose  in  thut  dreac  i\  country  there  is  always  snow." 

"  Yes ;  nothing  but  snow  and  ice.  The  sea  is  all  covered 
with  ice.  It  is  very  hard  to  row  a  ship  along.  Some  people 
say  that  all  the  water  is  thick  and  heavy,  and  never  rises  into 
waves ;  but  I  don't  know,  for  I  never  found  out  any  one  who 
had  been  there." 

"  Do  any  people  live  there  V 

"  Oh,  they  tell  all  kinds  of  stories  about  that.  Some  say 
giants  live  there,  who  dress  in  fur.  Others  say  that  nobody 
lives  there  at  all.  You  see  that  no  one  knows  anything  about 
it.  Some  people  say  that  Britain  extends  for  thousands  of 
leagues  till  it  is  all  mountains  of  ice,  with  snow-storms  always 
raging.  Other  people  say  that  it  is  an  island,  with  this  sea  of 
thick  water  on  the  north.  Perhaps  we  may  find  out  some  day. 
We  can  send  a  fleet  around  it  if  it  is  an  island." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  not  in  Britain,  and  I  hope  you'll  never, 
never  go  back  again,"  said  Marcus,  after  a  pause. 

"  Why  1"  asked  Labeo. 

"  Because  it  is  full  of  savages  and  snow  and  ice;  and  I  hope, 
if  you  go  away  again,  you  will  go  to  some  country  where  you 
can  always  keep  us  all  with  you." 

"  Were  you  afraid,"  said  Labeo,  looking  at  his  son  with  inex- 
pressible fondness,  "that  you  would  never  see  your  father  again?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Marcus.  "  I  knew  you  would  come  home." 
He  spoke  in  a  positive  tone,  and  shook  his  head  in  a  confident 
way,  as  though  doubt  were  impossible. 

"  You  knew  it? — why?"  asked  his  father,  curiously. 

"  Because  I  always  prayed  to  God,  and  I  knew  he  would 
liear  me." 


I 


ii6 


THE  RETURN. 


"  Prayed  to  God  !— to  what  God  V 

"  To  my  God  and  Father," 

"Your  God  and  Father  1"  asked  Labeo,  wonderingly. 

Helena  looked  at  her  child  with  a  fond  smile,  knowing  well 
the  sweet  formulas  of  his  innocent,  childish  faith. 

"  To  my  God  and  Father,  who  loves  me.  I  always  pray  to 
him,  and  he  hears  me  always.  And  he  has  heard  me.  And 
you  have  come  back.    And  I  will  thank  him." 

Labeo  looked  at  his  boy,  long  and  silently. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  God  V  he  asked,  with  strange 
gentleness  in  his  voice. 

"  All  that  he  has  done  for  me,"  said  Marcus,  "  and  promised. 
He  is  so  good.    And  I  see  him  often  in  my  dreams." 

"  The  boy  is  as  strange  as  ever,"  said  Labeo  to  his  wife, 
after  a  pause.  "  He  talks  like  Theophilus,  but  more  divinely. 
Theophilus  told  what  he  thought  or  hoped  ;  but  Marcus  tells 
what  he  knows.  It  is  from  you,  my  sweetest  Helena,  that  this 
marvellous  boy  inherits  this  lofty  spiritual  instinct.  I  am  more 
material  than  ever.  When  I  am  away  from  you,  I  am  merely 
the  Roman  soldier.  Now  that  I  am  with  you  again,  my  most 
adored  wife,  you  can  bring  me  back  to  my  better  feelings. 
You  can  tell  me  of 'the  master.'  I'm  afraid,  though,  that  the 
memory  of '  the  master'  is  dearer  to  me,  because  it  was  when  I 
was  his  disciple  that  I  loved  you." 

Helena's  eyes  glistened  with  the  pride  of  a  wife  who  knows 
how  well  she  is  loved.  That  strong  Roman  heart,  wherein  so 
much  valour  and  might  was  present,  beat  only  for  her.  That 
lofty  and  noble  spirit,  whose  devotion  had  been  tried  for  years, 
was  all  her  own.     Her  heart,  long  stricken,  was  at  last  at  peace. 

The  arrival  of  Labeo  changed  everything.  The  household 
gave  itself  up  to  rejoicing.  Helena  moved  about  with  a  light, 
elastic  step,  always  with  her  husband,  or  following  him  with 
her  eyes.  Cineas  shook  off  the  load  of  responsibility,  which 
had  pressed  heavily  upon  him,  and  showed  the  lightness  and 


:!■! 


THE  RETURN. 


117 


buoyant  spirits  of  a  true  Athenian.  The  three  felt  as  though 
they  had  gone  back  to  early  youth — to  boyhood  and  girlhood. 
They  forgot,  for  a  time,  all  the  cares  of  life. 

After  a  time,  Labeo  thought  of  presenting  himself  before 
Caesar  again,  and  Cineas  decided  to  accompany  him.  He 
had  felt  no  desire  to  do  so  before  ;  but  now,  since  all  his 
anxiety  was  over,  he  was  curious  to  see  Nero  with  his  own 
eyes,  and  pernaps  somewhat  playfully  desirous  of  trying  the 
force  of  the  advice  of  Burrhus — "  Be  a  poet !  ' 

Accordingly,  the  two  went  in  company,  and  obtained  access 
to  Caesar  without  any  difficulty. 

He  was  sitting  at  a  table,  as  they  entered,  with  a  reed  in  his 
hand,  and  parchment  before  him,  on  which  he  was  transcribing 
something.  His  head  was  thrown  on  one  side,  and  his  eyes 
were  upturned  and  half-closed,  with  the  expression  of  one  lost 
in  thought 

He  was  of  medium  size,  with  a  face  somewhat  fleshy,  which 
presented  rather  a  swollen  appearance.  His  eyes  were  large 
and  fine ;  his  under-jaw  was  moderately  broad ;  his  lips  thin. 
On  the  whole,  he  looked  like  a  dissipated  man  with  a  turn 
for  sentiment.  There  was  nothing  in  his  appearance  which 
marked  him  as  cruel  or  vindictive ;  for  Nero's  atrocities  arose 
from  perfect  heartlessness,  rather  than  from  violent  cruelty. 
He  was  utterly  indifferent  to  suffering.  He  could  inflict  agony, 
and  turn  lightly  away  to  art  or  literature. 

As  Cineas  looked  at  him,  he  thought  of  Agrippina — of 
others,  whose  names  were  on  the  popular  lip,  and  whose  fate 
was  only  whispered.  He  could  see  no  trace  in  this  man  of  the 
one  at  whose  name  the  world  already  turned  pale. 

Nero  suddenly  looked  toward  them  with  a  smile  of  recogni* 
tion,  which  was  even  fascinating. 

"  What  1  my  Hercules — and  you,  my  Athenian — you  are 
Antinous.  Friends  too.  You  see  I  know  all  about  you.  But 
how  is  it  that  Cineas — the  Megacleid,  the  Athenian,  the  poet, 


■f# 


■    Wl 


r 


x\% 


THE  RETUR^r. 


!    *■] 


P 


k    ! 


the  philosopher — should  have  been  so  long  in  Rome  without 
coming  to  me?"  ■ 

Cineas  smiled,  and,  with  easy  grace,  excused  himself.  He 
spoke  of  his  great  anxiety  about  his  friend,  which  had  depressed 
his  spirits,  and  prevented  him  from  having  that  gaiety  which 
alone  was  fitting  for  the  presence  of  such  a  man  as  Caesar.  But 
so  soon  as  Labeo  had  arrived,  he  had  hastened  to  him. 

The  delicacy  with  which  Cineas  insinuated  his  compliment, 
consisting,  as  it  did,  more  in  the  tone  than  in  the  words,  grati- 
fied Nero.  He  spoke  in  Greek,  of  which  language  the  emperor 
was  a  master,  and  his  fine  accent  and  elegant  language  gratified 
the  imperial  taste.  Here  was  a  man  who,  even  in  his  first 
address,  seemed  to  throw  all  his  other  courtiers  into  the  shade. 
Besides  this,  Nero  had  a  kind  of  enthusiasm  for  Greek  anti- 
quity, and  a  Me  icleid  was  grander,  in  his  eyes,  than  the 
noblest  name  in  Rome. 

"  You  were  right,"  said  Nero ;  "  you  shewed  the  true  Athe- 
nian delicacy."  He  then  went  on  to  speak  about  poetry  and 
metres,  quoted  Pindar,  and  occasionally  took  up  his  lyre,  to 
show  the  proper  way  of  singing  certain  verses. 

Cineas  was  complimentary;  but  Labeo  was  silent,  not  knowing 
exactly  how  to  express  himself  under  these  unusual  circumstan- 
ces. But  his  silence  rather  pleased  Nero,  who  did  all  the  talking, 
and  was  content,  just  now,  at  any  rate,  with  a  good  listener. 

Fmally,  he  informed  Cineas  that  he  had  invented  a  new 
system,  by  which  Latin  poetry  should  be  all  revolutionized. 

"  Your  poetry,"  said  he,  "  is  original.  Ours  is  not.  You 
developed  the  genius  of  your  own  language.  Our  poets  imi- 
tated yours.  Our  best  poems  are  only  imitations.  Yet  our 
language  has  certain  beauties  in  which  it  is  superior  to  yours. 
These  have  always  been  neglected  by  our  educated  classes. 
It  is  reserved  for  me,  by  the  propitious  fates,  to  draw  this 
excellency  up  from  its  obscurity,  and  place  Latin  poetry  on  its 
proper  foundation.'' 


r 


THE  RETURN. 


t 


I    Cineas  expressed  great  curiosity  to  know  what  this  might  be. 

At  this  moment,  another  person  entered  the  apartment, 
and  after  saluting  the  emperor,  was  motioned  to  a  seat  near 
him. 

He  was  an  elderly  man,  of  middling  stature,  with  a  refined 
countenance,  and  somewhat  venerable  mien.  But  about  his 
features  there  was  a  certain  worldly-wise  expression,  which 
smacked  of  shrewdness  and  craft,  that  rather  detracted  from 
his  otherwise  reverend  air.  On  the  whole,  he  had  much  dig- 
nity ;  and  when  the  emperor,  in  a  courteous  manner,  introduced 
the  two  friends,  he  saluted  them  with  winning  courtesy. 

This  was  Seneca,  the  former  tutor  of  Nero,  his  master  in 
philosophy  and  literature,  whose  influence  was  now  on  the 
wane,  but  who  yet  was  a  privileged  character  at  court. 

"  I  am  about  to  describe  my  discovery  in  poetry,"  said  Nero, 
with  some  importance.  "  It  has  been  reserved  for  the  master 
of  the  world  to  bless  it  in  the  most  important  way — its  litera- 
ture." 

He  took  up  his  lyre  and  struck  a  few  chords  in  a  half* 
abstracted  way,  and  then  resumed, — 

"  Our  Latin  tongue  has  certain  qualities  which  make  it  sur- 
pass even  the  Greek.  One  is,  its  richness  in  sonorous  words 
of  similar  sounds.  It  is  difficult  for  the  poet  to  avoid  them, 
they  are  so  frequent.  Ovid  is  full  of  them.  But  our  poets,  in 
everything  but  elegiac  verse,  avoid  this  recurrence  of  similar 
words." 

While  he  chatted  on  in  this  way,  Cineas  thought  of  nothing 
but  Agrippina,  and  the  ship  of  death,  and  her  last  words  to  her 
assassins.  He  thought  of  Seneca,  when  his  advice  was  asked 
about  her  assassination.  He  felt  as  though  all  this  terrific 
story  must  be  a  dream. 

And  still  Nero  went  on  chattering  about  metres. 

"  Our  own  original  poetry,"  said  he,  "  bears  many  marks  of 
this.     We  began  right.     Our  poets  should  have  cultivated  it 


\ 


vl 


120 


THE  RETURN. 


r 


^  . 


In  * 


%' 


In  real  music  of  verse  we  might  then  have  surpassed  youi 
poetry,  Cineas." 

Cineas  nodded,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Cicero  felt  its  beauty,"  he  went  on  to  say.  "  He  admired 
it.  If  he  had  had  sufficient  poetic  genius  he  might  have  antici- 
pated me  ;  but  it  was  reserved  for  me, — yes,"  he  repeated,  "  it 
was  reserved  for  me.  You  will  find  examples  of  it  in  his 
writings.  The  common  people  love  it.  This  shows  that  it 
belongs  to  the  language.  Listen  to  some  of  their  songs,  and 
you  will  perceive  this  recurrence  of  similar  sounds  at  the  end 
of  verses." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  trying  to  recall  something, 
and  then  turning  to  Seneca,  he  said, — 

"  I  believe  my  memory  ^  bad  to-day.  Do  you  repeat  those 
verses  of  Cicero — you  know  what  I  mean — something  which 
begins,  *  Priamo,'  I  think." 

"  Hzc  omnia  vidi  inflammari 
Prianio  vi  vitam  evetari 
Jovis  aram  sanguine  turpari." 

Seneca  repeated  these  lines  in  a  meek  voice,  laying  stress  on 
the  rhymes. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nero ;  *•'  now  repeat  those  others  beginning 
*  Coelum  nitescere.' " 

"  Ccelum  nitescere,  arbores  frondescere 
Vites  Isetificx  pampinis  pubescere 
Rami  baccaTm  ubertate  incurvescere." 

Seneca  repeated  these  lines,  indicating  the  rhymes  as  before, 
but  evidently  not  sharing  Nero's  admiration. 

"You  see,"  said  Nero,  "how  melodiously  our  Latin  lan- 
guage can  convey  those  assonant  sounds.  It  is  magnificent. 
That  is  true  poetry." 

He  paused  for  a  while,  and  took  up  his  lyre  in  an  affected 
manner.  He  struck  a  i^^fi  cliords,  and  then  looked  around 
for  applause.  All  expressed  their  pleasure  in  a  complimentary 
way. 


\v 


THE  RETURN. 


121 


"  To  show  you  the  admirable  effect  of  this  assonance,  when 
joined  with  really  good  poetry,  I  will  read  you  some  of  m^ 
lines." 

Saying  this,  he  took  up  the  parchment  before  him,  and  read 
the  following, — 

"  Torva  Mimalloneis  implerunt  cornua  bombis,  , 

£t  raptum  vitulo  caput  ablatura  sufcrbo 
Bassaris,  et  lyncetn  Msnas  flexura  corymbis, 
Evton  ingeminat ;  reparabilis  adsonat  echo." 

"  Notice,"  he  continued,  prouf^ly,  "  the  fine  effect  of  this 
assonance  of  syllables  mi  maUeonis  and  bombis,  vetulo  and 
superbo ;  and  so  two  in  the  alternate  lines,  bombis  and  corymbis, 
superbo  and  echo.  This  is  the  thing  with  which  I  intend  to 
revolutionize  our  Latin  verse. 

"  But  I  have  no  cordial  supporters,"  he  said,  pettishly.  *'  All 
the  literary  men  are  carried  away  by  prejudices.  The  Greek 
models  enslave  them.  I  admire  the  Greek  poetry  above  all 
things ;  but  I  think  that  something  might  be  done  to  make 
Latin  poetry  have  some  original  excellence. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  a  blessing  for  the  world,"  he  continued, 
"that  I  who  am  an  emperor,  should  be  such  a  lover  of 
literature,  and  have  genius  for  music.  By  this  means  I  can 
advance  them.  If  I  had  been  but  a  humble  Roman,  I  might 
then  have  been  happier.  I  would  have  produced  some 
great  epic  poem — better  than  Lucan's  Pharsalia,  at  any  rate. 
But  I  am  what  I  am ;  and  I  give  my  genius  for  music  to  the 
world. 

"  But  even  as  it  is.  I  can  show  that  the  cares  of  state  are 
unable  to  repress  the  efforts  of  genius.  Amid  all  my  troubles 
my  lyre  is  my  best  consoler.  There  is  no  power  like  that  of 
music.  You  shall  see  what  a  proficient  I  am.  Shall  I  give 
you  Pindai  V 

And  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  struck  the  wires,  and, 
throwing  his  head  back  in  a  languishing  way,  he  sang  the 


w 


\i\ 


muhh 


ii' 


f'> 


122 


THE  RETURN. 


noblest  lines  of  ancient  poetry,  of  which  the  following  is  the 
best  representation,  though  only  a  paraphrase : — 

"  Oh !  sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 

Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn  breathing  airs  1 
Enchanting  shell !  the  sullen  cares, 

And  frantic  passions  bear  thy  soft  control. 
On  Thracia*!,  hills  the  lord  of  war 
Has  curbed  the  fury  of  his  car, 

And  dropped  his  feathered  lance  at  thy  command. 
Perched  on  the  sceptred  hand 
Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  feathered  king, 
With  ruffled  plumes  and  flagging  wing  ; 
Quenched  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber,  lie 
The  terrors  of  his  beak,  and  lightnings  of  his  eye." 


rr' 


C|^:  Pop  0f  %  I^DS. 


j|T  was  not  the  smallest  part  of  Helena's  joy  that  the 
nurse  began  to  recover  health  and  strength  with 
greater  rapidity.  Day  after  day  found  her  improv- 
ing. The  return  of  Labeo  made  her  share  the 
prevailing  happiness.  Sht;  obtained  greater  self-control,  and 
was  no  longer  subject  to  that  excessive  agitation  which  had 
before  retarded  her  recovery. 

When  she  heard  of  Labeo's  return,  she  murmured,  "  It  is  all 
his  love.  He  makes  you  happy  again,  and  brings  back  your 
husband.  And  for  me,  too,  though  I  have  been  sorely  dis- 
tressed, he  has  his  own  peace  and  rest." 

She  now  talked  of  one  theme  to  her  misiresj.  Day  after 
day  she  talked  of  Him  who  loved  us  and  gave  himself  for  us. 
Helena  listened,  and  gradually  found  herself  sharing  the  viev/s 
of  the  nurse.  Perhaps,  if  left  lo  herself  altogether,  the  return 
of  her  husband  might  have  mitigated  her  eagerness  to  learn  of 
Christ  But  here  was  one  who  never  ceased  to  think  of  him. 
And  so  it  was  that,  although  her  sorrow  had  departed,  y>. .  h^r 
desire  after  the  truth  remained, 

The  nurse  undertook  no  argument;  she  only  described. 
Women  often  go  by  intuitions,  or  by  a  certain  instinct,  which 
leads  them  to  see  what  must  be  right.  The  story  of  the  incar- 
nation was  thus  unfolded  to  Helena.  Not  only  did  it  seem  to 
her  to  be  more  worthy  of  God  than  the  speculations  of  philo- 


n 


124  T//E  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 

sophy  or  mythology,  but  it  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  only  theory 
worthy  of  him.  Out  of  all  this  there  stood  one  great  idea, 
which  carne  with  stronger  and  stronger  force  to  her  mind,  till 
it  reigned  there  supreme,  till  it  drew  all  her  belief.  This  was 
the  great  truth  that  God  loves. 

Here  was  that  in  ,vhich  the  nurse  found  all  her  comfort. 
The  dealings  of  God  with  man  left  in  her  mind  not  a  shadow 
of  doubt  about  this.  And  all  was  summed  up  in  Christ.  She 
told  to  Helena  all  the  story  of  the  Revelation  from  the  first, 
and  all  had  reference  to  this. 

"  God  has  always  loved  the  world.  He  made  it  for  happi- 
ness, and  he  works  for  its  happiness."  Thus  she  would  go  on 
to  say,  "  The  creatures  whom  he  made  turned  away  from  him, 
and  we  have  all  sinned  against  him  ;  but  he  never  forgot  us,  or 
despised  us.  He  loved  us  so  that  he  came  to  us  to  save  us. 
He  came  and  lived  as  I  have  told  you,  and  consented  to  die  to 
save  us." 

"  Rest  comes  at  last,"  she  said,  at  another  time.  "  All  the 
sorrow  and  all  the  sighing  and  all  the  suspense  of  life  shall 
cease.  I  shall  see  him.  I  know  he  will  not  ca-^t  me  off  at 
last."  Tears  started  into  her  eyes.  "  Because  I  havf  put  my 
trust  in  him,  and  in  grief  I  have  only  clung  more  closely.  Out 
of  the  depths  I  have  cried. 

"  The  dearest  thought  to  me  is  that  my  Saviour  was  the  Man 
of  sorrows.  There  was  never  sorrow  like  that  sorrow.  And 
amid  it,  he  knew  what  it  was  to  look  on  a  broken-hearted 
mother.  Out  of  all,  he  brings  this  for  me,  that  I  may  know 
how  wondrously  he  loves.  O  Sorrow,  and  Love,  and  God  ! 
What  have  I  to  do  but  to  give  myself  all  up  to  him  in  whom 
all  these  were  unitea,  and  wait  till  he  calls  me  home  V 

Home,  rest,  peace,  heaven.  All  these  words  dwelt  so  con- 
stantly on  the  lips  of  the  nurse  that  they  lived  in  Helena's 
mind,  and  she,  too,  gained  that  sublime  idea  of  the  future. 
For  the  nurse  assured  her  that  heaven  was  the  solution  to  the 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 


i«5 


mystery  of  earth,  and  that  those  who  loved  God  had  no  home 
here,  but  yonder.  i  ^^  i 

In  that  room  Pomponia,  the  wife  of  Plautius,  often  made  a 
third.  Helena  soon  had  an  opportunity  to  read  the  precious 
manuscript  of  which  she  had  heard  so  frequently.  In  that 
simple  story,  with  its  divine  words  and  its  momentous  events, 
she  saw  new  displays  of  the  character  of  that  One  whom  she 
sought.  She  heard  words  which  sank  deep  within  her  heart ; 
she  saw  actions  which  thrilled  through  her  being.  And  out  of 
it  all  there  came  forth,  more  sublimely  than  ever,  the  great 
truth  of  all  truths  to  her, — God  loves. 

She  found  herself  drawn  gradually  to  One  who  thus  became 
precious  to  her.  She  wished  to  give  herself  to  him.  To  go  to 
him,  to  confess,  to  pray,  seemed  to  become  a  necessity  of  her 
nature.  A  new  bond  of  union  grew  up  between  the  mother 
and  the  boy.  Now  they  could  sit  together,  and  talk  of 
those  things  which  both  loved.  The  manuscript  was  there, 
from  which  Helena  could  read,  and  Marcus  could  listen,  till  he 
knew  all. 

These  gradual  changes  went  on  almost  imperceptibly. 
Helena  often  spoke  with  her  husband  about  these  things, 
which  were  prominent  in  her  thoughts.  Yet,  with  all  their 
strong  mutual  love,  there  was  little  intellectual  sympathy 
between  these  two.  Labeo  gave  his  wife  all  his  heart,  and 
loved  her  with  tenderness  and  the  most  single-minded  devo- 
tion. Her  love  for  him  was  equally  intense.  But  in  mind, 
these  two  went  in  different  paths.  Helena  and  Cineas  were  so 
completely  in  accord  that  they  could  sometimes  pursue  the 
same  train  of  thought,  so  that  one  could  tell  what  the  other  was 
thinking  of.  They  looked  at  things  in  the  same  way.  But  the 
husband  and  wife  were  different. 

When  Helena  spoke  of  her  feelings  or  the  trials  of  her  mind, 
she  said  much  that  was  almost  unintelligible  to  her  husband. 
He  listened,  and  often  caressed  her,  and  told  her  that  she  was 


i'l 


\ 


126 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 


m. 


I 


l:«t 


too  subtle  and  too  much  of  a  Greek ;  playfully  scolded  her  foi 
worrying  about  trifles,  and  wondered  what  she  wanted  of  new 
discoveries  in  religion.  It  was  all  mystery.  It  was  impossible 
to  understand  it. 

He  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  the  Supreme  Being  never 
intended  that  men  should  fret  themselves  and  drive  themselves 
mad  about  the  unseen  world.  If  he  had  intended  us  to  specu- 
late these  matters,  he  could  easily  have  told  us  something 
definite. 

"  For  my  part,"  he  continued,  "  when  I  was  under  the  in- 
fluence of  'the  master,'  and  young  and  impressible,  with  nothing 
serious  in  life,  and  with  my  divinest  little  Helena  to  make  all 
things  glorious,  then  I  had  a  taste  for  these  speculations.  Yet 
even  then  I  loved  the  doqtrines  of  *  the  master,'  because  I  saw 
in  them  something  definite.  He  taught  me  what  was  my  duty 
to  my  friends,  my  enemies,  my  family,  and  my  country. 

"  But  do  you  not  see  how  impossible  it  is  to  obtain  any  result 
when  you  go  beyond  morality,  and  practical  duty  1  All  philo- 
sophy is  confused.  No  two  systems  or  branches  of  systems  are 
similar.  It  is  fit  only  for  young  students  who  wish  to  exercise 
their  wits,  or  for  men  of  literary  leisure,  who  have  nothing  in 
particular  to  do. 

"  I  was  a  youth  when  *  tne  master '  taught  me.  I  am  a  man 
now — a  Roman  soldier — ambitious,  energetic,  resolute  in  my 
aim  to  rise  in  life  and  elevate  the  family.  I  have  lost  all  the 
taste  I  ever  had  for  these  speculations,  and  would  far  rather 
read  a  dispatch  from  Corbulo  than  a  treatise  by  Seneca.  And 
I  would  not  give  Caesar's  commentaries  for  the  whole  body  of 
Greek  philosophy. 

*'  But  with  you  it  is  diflerent,"  he  continued,  in  a  proud,  fond 
tone.  "  You  are  spiritual.  You  are  as  far  before  me,  in  taste 
and  subtlety,  as  I  am  before  you  in  bodily  strength.  I  love 
you  all  the  better  for  it.  I  love  to  hear  you  speak  of  these 
things.     I  never  heard  anything  like  your  voice.     But,  to  tell 


ft 


e 

le 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 


% 

lfl7 

I 


the  truth,  it  is  all  the  same  with  me,  whatever  you  speak  of. 
listen  as  I  listen  to  music.     It  is  the  tone  that  I  hear." 

There  never  was  a  more  unpromising  subject  for  spiritual 
conversation.  Indeed,  such  conversations  invariably  ended  in 
the  same  way.  It  all  turned  off  to  the  subject  of  their  mutur' 
love,  and  each  thought  the  other  was  dearer  than  ever. 

Now,  with  Cineas  and  Helena,  though  they  were  so  very 
much  alike,  there  were  differences.  Cineas  was  an  earnest 
inquirer  after  truth,  and  sought  it  under  all  forms.  He  had 
heard  the  Christian  doctrine  explained,  to  some  extent,  by 
Julius,  and  yet  he  found  it  not  acceptable.  His  mind  was  pos- 
sessed of  larger  resources  than  Helena's.  He  reasoned  more. 
He  felt  doubt  and  hesitation  where  she  felt  none.  The  partial 
knowledge  which  he  had  gained  left  him  where  he  was  before. 

Happening  to  be  with  Isaac  one  day,  he  mentioned  some- 
thing about  the  Christians. 

Isaac  at  once  exhibited  strong  excitement  Cineas  inquired 
the  reason. 

"I  hate  them  !"  said  Isaac,  fiercely. 

"  Why  1    They  are  not  hateful." 

"  They  are  to  a  true  Jew.  They  are  the  followers  of  a  false 
prophet,  who  was  tried  for  treason,  and  crucified.  But  their 
worst  fault  is,  that  they  seek  to  rob  us  of  our  dearest  hope." 

"  How  is  that  ?    What  is  your  dearest  hope  ?" 

"  The  restoration  of  our  independence,  and  our  triumph  over 
men." 

"Do  you  then  believe  that  it  is  possible  for  you  Jews  to 
become  the  masters  of  the  world  V 

"  With  God,  all  things  are  possible,"  said  Isaac,  solemnly. 

"  I  know,"  said  Cineas,  "  all  that  your  sacred  books  declare 
about  this.  But  this  very  thing  is  an  obstacle  to  me.  How 
can  we  Greeks  believe  in  a  book  v/hich  only  promises  this?" 
He  thought  of  "  the  master's  "  search,  his  experience,  and  his 
disappointment,  but  said  nothing  of  this  to  Isaac. 


^■'\\ 


128 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 


-.11 


"God  chose  us  out,"  said  Isaac,  calmly,  and  with  lofty  em- 
phasis. "  Ages  ago  he  raised  up  Abraham,  our  father,  from 
whom  we  are  descended.  A  nation  arose  from  that  man — the 
friend  of  God — and  this  nation  has  always  stood  apart,  the 
followers  of  God  and  his  favourite  people.  All  our  history  is 
interwoven  with  him.  He  has  been  our  guide.  We  are 
oppressed  now — a  subject  people  \  but  we  have  been  far  worse. 
It  has  been  his  will  to  guide  us  in  a  way  which  seemed  dark. 

"  '  Clouds  and  darkness  are  round  about  him  ; 

Justice  and  judgment  are  the  habitations  of  his  throne.' 

"  Praised  be  his  holy  name ! 

"  We  have  been  enslaved,  afflicted,  led  into  captivity.  We 
have  endured  calamities  which  would  have  crushed  any  other 
people.  But  he  has  been  faithful.  He  has  chastised  us  so  as 
to  bring  us  back  to  him.  After  the  chastisement,  we  have  ever 
returned  to  him,  and  said,  *  Praised  be  his  holy  name.' 

"  Amid  it  all,  he  has  cheered  us  by  his  sublime  promise. 
He  has  told  us  that,  in  the  course  of  ages,  a  time  would 
come  when  all  our  sufferings  would  end.  One  would  appear, 
who  should  lead  us  into  perpetual  rest.  Through  him  we 
should  triumph.  His  holy  reign  should  be  extended  over 
all  the  world.  All  nations  should  be  blessed  in  him ;  yea,  all 
nations  should  call  him  blessed.  Then  the  presence  of  the 
Most  High  in  the  holy  city  should  be  adored  over  all  the  earth. 
Jerusalem  should  become  a  place  of  pilgrimage,  and  he  should 
reign  over  all.     This  has  been  our  hope." 

"  You  speak,"  said  Cineas,  "  the  thoughts  of  a  Jew.  Can 
the  rest  of  the  world  consider  it  a  blessing  from  God  that  a  Jew 
should  reign  over  them  ?  Why  should  I  prefer  Rome  to  Jeru- 
salem] The  Roman  is  just.  The  whole  world  is  at  peace 
under  his  impartial  and  powerful  rule.  If  we  Greeks  want  any- 
thing from  God,  it  is  our  old  independence — the  days  of  our 
ancient  glory. 

"  If  I  look  at  your  sacred  writings,  one  thing  repels  me,  and 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 


139 


it  is  the  very  thing  which  gives  you  so  much  joy.  I  do  not 
want  a  conqueror.  Philosophy  tells  me  something  better  than 
this.  If  you  looked  upon  your  writings  with  our  eyes,  you 
would  not  believe  in  them.  It  is  not  the  just  and  worthy  part 
of  a  holy  God  to  give  a  revelation  to  man  that  tells  nothing 
more  than  this.  , 

"  You  speak  about  a  chosen  people,  and  you  tell  of  your  won- 
derful history,"  he  continued,  while  greater  animation  expressed 
itself  in  his  words.  "  Where,  I  ask  you,  would  one  look  for  a 
chosen  people  1  The  Romans  have  a  better  claim  than  the 
Jews.  They  have  risen,  from  small  beginnings,  to  the  empire 
of  the  world.  Is  not  that  the  favour  of  God  1  If  the  favour  of 
God  means  conquest  over  a  world,  then  the  Romans  are  his 
people.  They  have  conquered  even  that  place  which  you  con- 
sider his  own  holy  city. 

"If  I  were  to  search  for  the  chosen  people,  I  would  find  a  nation 
which  has  done  something  more  than  win  battles.  The  grandeur 
of  the  mind  is  greater  than  that  of  the  body.  The  Romans  are 
material ;  but  the  Greeks  are  intellectual.  The  philosopher 
tries  to  look  at  God  and  spiritual  things  from  a  spiritual  point 
of  view.  He  will  not  allow  himself  to  be  overcome  by  vulgar 
display.  The  Greek  mind  is  to  him  the  most  marvellous  thing 
on  earth.  We  have  humanized  men,  and  taught  them  all  things. 
We  have  given  them  knowledge,  art,  literature,  music,  philo- 
sophy,— all  that  is  best  and  highest  in  life. 

"  We  have  taught  men  how  to  think.  Our  state  is  now  sub- 
ject to  Rome ;  but  the  mind  is  free,  and  Greece  rules  the  mind 
of  the  world.  What  is  it  to  be  chosen  of  God,  if  this  is  not  1 
If  he  does  anything  for  the  government  of  the  world,  this  must 
surely  have  been  his  doing.  Thus,  you  see,  I  can  say  something 
too  about  a  chosen  people.  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  had  to 
boast;  but  you  made  it  necessary." 

"  Noble  Cineas,  all  that  you  have  said  is  true,"  answered 
Isaac,  calmly.    "  But  you  have  not  said  enough.   I  mighi  allow 

(183)  9 


J'    '   iiH' 


M 


"'tt 


^^ai 


130 


THE  J  I  OPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 


iiii: 


that  God  had  raised  up  the  Romans  to  conquer  the  world,  and 
banish  wars  among  different  states ;  and  that  he  created  the 
Greeks  to  rule  over  the  human  mind.  He  gave  to  the  Romans 
material  power,  to  the  Greeks  intellectual.  Is  there  nothing 
more  to  give  ? 

"  There  is.  There  is  a  power  great>,.  than  even  the  intel- 
lectual, and  this  is  the  spiritual.  This  he  gave  to  the  Jews. 
He  formed  us  for  this.  He  trained  us  for  this,  and  moulded  all 
our  natures  so  that  we  should  show  forth  this. 

"  What  is  this  spiritual  power  ?  It  is  the  capacity  to  under- 
stand him — to  believe  in  him.  To  have  firm  faith  in  the 
Unseen;  to  worship  the  Spirit  This  is  the  character  of  our 
race.  We  adore  the  Invisible,  and  need  no  idols  to  represent 
him.  It  is  not  thus  with  a  few  philosophers,  but  with  the 
whole  nation.  The  humble,  illiterate  peasant,  the  rude  artisan, 
the  wild  fisherman,  among  us,  all  cherish  this  sublime  belief  in 
the  existence  and  the  presence  of  the  one  God.  Such  a  people 
appear  nowhere  else,  and  if  they  did  not  really  exist,  the  thing 
would  be  pronounced  impossible  by  those  who  know  only  the 
ordinary  races. 

"  He  formed  us,  chose  us,  set  us  apart,  trained  us  to  be  his 
people.  As  his  people  we  have  lived.  All  his  dealings  with 
us  have  had  reference  to  this.  Where  we  showed  a  tendency 
to  forget  him,  he  has  brought  us  back.  When  we  have  actually 
practised  idolatry,  he  has  chastised  us.  We  have  thus  lived 
through  many  ages,  and  while  all  the  world  was  dark,  we  have 
had  the  true  light.  We  have  had  the  truth,  and  have  carried  it 
always  down  to  the  present  day. 

"  But  there  is  something  more  than  this  in  our  history.  We 
have  carried  it  thus  far,  but  it  has  been  made  known  to  us  that 
we  were  to  have  a  far  grander  mission.  For  age  after  age  the 
promise  has  been  made,  and  reiterated  under  the  most  solemn 
circumstances,  that  at  some  time  in  the  future  One  would  come 
who  would  find  us  all  prepared,  and  would  extend  over  the 


I' 


THE  nOPE  OF  THE  JEIVS. 


I3» 


whole  world  the  worship  of  the  God  of  Abraham.  Then  we 
should  receive  the  reward  of  our  suffering,  we  the  chosen,  the 
trained  people,  would  follow  our  Messiah  to  this  sublime  con- 
quest. We  should  participate  in  all.  As  we  had  shared  the 
sorrow,  so  should  we  share  the  joy.  Since  our  God  had  sub- 
jected us  to  strife,  he  would  finally  give  us  glorious  victory. 

"This  is  why  it  is  right  and  just  in  him  to  make  us  the 
rulers  over  the  earth.  Our  rule  under  the  Messiah  would  be 
better  far  than  that  of  the  Romans.  The  time  shall  come 
when  all  this  shall  be.  There  shall  then  be  no  tyrannical 
governors,  no  distressed  and  plundering  armies,  no  oppressed 
nations  rising  up  in  rebellion.  Our  God  shall  change  the  face 
of  nature  itself  in  that  day.  The  desert  shall  give  birth  to 
verdure.  The  wild  beasts  shall  grow  tame.  War  shall  be 
known  no  more,  but  God  shall  reign  in  his  holy  hill  of  Zion." 

Cineas  said  nothing;  all  this  was  to  him  the  fond  extrava- 
gance of  a  Jew.  These  sacred  writings  then  had  nothing  more 
than  this.  This  was  his  thought,  and  some  disappointment 
came  over  him.  He  thought  that  Isaac  would  know,  if  any 
one  did,  and  Isaac's  explanation  was  not  agreeable. 

"All  our  writings  are  full  of  this,"  said  Isaac  "These 
prophecies  have  become  the  joy  and  support  of  our  people, 
and  this  is  why  we  wait  and  suffer  on.  This  is  what  they  say. 
Listen." 

And  Isaac  began ; — 

"  '  Sing,  O  Heavens ;  and  be  joyful,  O  Earth  ; 
And  break  forth  into  singing,  O  mountains ; 
For  the  Lord  hath  comforted  his  people 
And  will  have  mercy  upon  his  afflicted. 
But  Zion  said,  "  The  Lord  hath  forsaken  me, 
And  my  God  hath  forgotten  me." 
Can  a  woman  forget  her  sucking  child. 

That  she  should  not  have  compassion  on  the  son  of  her  womb? 
Yea,  they  may  forget,  yet  will  I  not  forget  thee. 
Behold  !  I  have  graven  thee  upon  the  palms  of  my  hands. 
Thy  walls  are  continually  before  me.' " 


■■| : ; ! 


>'  •'  m 


Isaac  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  sighed,  then  he  repeated 


V 


ija 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 


the  last  few  lines,  while  his  eyes  glistened  with  emotion.     Then 
he  went  on : — 

•* '  Thy  children  «hall  make  haste  :  thy  destroyen 

And  they  that  made  thee  waste  shall  go  forth  of  thee. 

Lift  up  thine  eyes  round  about,  and  behold  : 

All  these  gather  themselves  together  and  come  to  thee. 

As  I  live,  saith  the  Lord, 
Thou  shalt  surely  clothe  thee  with  them  all  as  with  an  ornament, 
And  bind  them  on  thee  as  a  bride  doth. 

For  thy  waste  and  thy  desolate  places,  and  the  land  of  thy  destruction, 
Shall  even  now  be  too  narrow,  by  means  of  the  inhabitants; 
And  they  that  swallowed  thee  up  shaU  be  far  away. 
Tiie  children  which  thou  shalt  have  after  thou  hast  lost  the  other 
Shall  say  again  in  thine  ears : — 
"The  place  is  too  straight  for  me, 
Give  place  to  me,  that  I  may  dwell." 
Then  shalt  thou  say  in  thine  heart : — 
"  Who  hath  begotten  me  these? 

Seeing  I  have  lost  m)|  children,  and  am  desolate,  a  captive. 
And  removing  to  and  fro ;  and  who  hath  brought  up  these? 
Behold  I  was  left  alone,— these,  where  had  they  been?" 

Thus  saith  the  Lord  God  : 
Behold  I  will  lift  up  mine  hand  to  the  Gentiles, 
And  set  up  my  standard  to  the  people  ; 
And  they  shall  bring  thy  sons  in  their  arms ; 
And  thy  daughters  shall  be  carried  upon  their  shoulders. 
And  kings  shall  be  thy  nursing  fathers, 
And  their  queens  thy  nursing  mothers ; 

They  shall  bow  down  to  thee  with  their  far.  towards  the  e.nrth, 
And  lick  up  the  dust  of  thy  feet ; 
And  thou  shalt  know  that  I  am  the  Lord, 
For  they  shall  not  be  ashamed  that  wait  for  me.— 
Shall  the  prey  be  taken  from  the  mighty. 
Or  the  lawful  captive  delivered  ? 

But  thus  saith  the  Lord  : 
Even  the  captives  of  the  mighty  shall  be  taken  away. 
And  the  prey  of  the  terrible  shall  be  delivered, 
For  I  will  contend  with  him  that  contendeth  with  thee, 
And  I  will  save  thy  children  ; 

And  I  will  feed  them  that  oppress  thee  with  their  own  flesh. 
And  they  shall  be  drunken  with  their  own  blood  as  with  sweet  wine ; 
And  all  flesh  shall  know  that  I  the  Lord  am  thy  Saviour 
And  thy  Redeemer — the  mighty  One  of  Jacob.'" 

In  repeating  these  lines,  Isaac  seemed  again,  as  on  a  former 
occasion,  to  lose  sight  of  his  companion.  He  was  like  one 
who  utters  a  soliloquy.  The  comfort,  the  triumph  were  all  his 
own.     There  was  something  in  these  words  that  did  not  fail  to 


THE  UOPE  OF  THE  JEWS, 


«33 


I  his 
to 


affect  Cineas.  The  tender  relation  which  they  portrayed  be- 
tween a  chosen  people  and  their  God,  seemed  to  warrant 
Isaac's  lofty  belief  in  the  destiny  of  his  people.  That  destiny 
seemed  to  be  proclaimed  in  unmistakable  language,  yet  the 
idea  was  repulsive  to  the  Athenian.  Mere  material  triumph, 
conquest,  victory,  however  great  in  its  result,  was  not  to  his 
mind  the  highest  action  of  Deity.  It  was  to  vulgarize  the 
sublime  conception  of  the  Infinite  Mind.  It  would  be  to  make 
of  Jerusalem  merely  another  Rome.  And  why  should  he,  an 
Athenian,  see  anything  divine  in  such  a  plan  1 

"  Behold,"  said  Isaac,  "  the  picture  of  the  future.  All  is  told 
us  plainly;  on  this  we  rely.  The  Messiah  will  come  and  lead 
us  to  all  this." 

"  It  is  very  grand  in  its  way,"  f lid  Cineas ;  "  but  still  I  can 
see  nothing  worthy  of  thef  Deity  in  such  a  plan.  If  this  were 
figurative;  if  your  Messiah  were  a  teacher;  if  his  conquests 
were  those  of  Truth ;  if  he  taught  the  perfect  good,  and  perfect 
fair,  ihen  it  would  be  worthy  of  God." 

"A  teacher!"  said  Isaac,  in  indescribable  tor.es;  "a  new 
teacher !  What  could  such  a  one  do  1  Teachers  without 
number  have  come.  Prophets  and  priests  have  spoken  the 
words  of  God.  What  have  they  done  ?  Nothing.  Even  among 
us,  the  chosen  people,  their  voices  have  scarcely  been  heard. 
No,  we  need  something  grander;  we  need  a  mighty  potentate, 
who  shall  lead  us  on  to  triumph,  amid  mighty  miracles  like 
those  of  God.  He  will  lead  us  through  the  sea,  which  shall 
open  to  let  us  pass,  and  all  the  elements  shall  fight  vith  us 
against  our  enemies." 

Cineas  looked  at  him  with  deep  disappointmeni.  in  his  face. 

"  And  is  that  all  1  Is  that  the  end  of  your  divine  revelation  ? 
Why,  beside  that,  Plato  is  indeed  divine.  Socrates  is  a  God 
beside  such  a  Messiah.  For  your  promised  leader  would  only 
fill  the  earth  with  terrible  wars,  and  all  mankind  would  be  con- 
vulsed." 


Wh 


'?3i 


<34 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 


*'  But  think  on  the  grand  end  of  all." 

'*  The  grand  end  of  all !  To  have  Jerusalem  instead  of 
Rome  for  our  capitol.  This  idea  of  fighting,  and  marching, 
and  conquest,  is  merely  one  which  affects  the  vulgar  mind. 
What  does  the  Divine  Being  want  of  all  this  ?  You  make  him 
one  who  would  sacrifice  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  for  a  spec- 
tacle. That  might  do  for  the  ruler  of  Olympus,  not  for  the 
god  of  philosophy." 

"  His  conquest,"  said  Isaa^,  without  heeding  the  evident  dis- 
appointment and  slight  asperity  of  Cineas — "  His  conquest 
will  exalt  his  people.  It  will  fill  the  earth  with  his  glory.  The 
end  of  all  will  be  happiness  for  all.  Earth  shall  receive  a  new 
Golden  Age,  and  he  shall  reign — over  all." 

"  And  in  the  midst  ofi  his  grandeur,"  said  Cineas,  "  such  a 
one  would  be  far  inferior  to  our  Great  Teacher,  as  he  stood 
up  on  his  death  trial,  and  told  his  enemies  how  he  forgave 
them  all." 

"  Your  Messiah  on  the  throne  of  Jerusalem,  the  conqueror 
of  a  subject  world,  surrounded  by  his  Jewish  armies,  would  fall 
beneath  the  attitude  of  Socrates  in  his  prison,  when  he  took  the 
cup  with  an  enthusiastic  smile,  and  drank  off  the  poison.  I 
have  no  admiration  for  this  conqueror  of  yours.  Tell  me  that 
your  prophecies  of  triumph  are  figurative.  Tell  me  that  his 
victory  is  over  the  soul,  and  then  I  will  look  for  the  Divine  in 
your  writings." 

"  No,"  said  Isaac  sternly,  and  with  eager  positiveness.  *'  Im- 
possible. They  are  literal,  or  nothing  is  true.  Take  away 
that  literal  truth,  and  all  the  hope  of  ages  dies.  Thc»i  the  Jews 
have  been  mocked.  To  suppose  the  Messiah  a  figurative  con- 
queror over  the  mind  of  man,  is  to  insult  us  in  our  degradation. 
No  I  No ! "  he  repeated  in  a  kind  of  frenzy,  "  I  have  been 
tempted  to  think  it  so,  but  it  is  past.  I  hold  on  to  the  word  of 
God,  to  his  promise.  He  who  chose  us  out,  and  subjected  us 
to  such  long  suffering,  never  meant  to  mock  us  with  such  a 


'  f;**',- 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 


135 


shadow.     He  who  bade  us  hope  never  meant  thus  to  deceive 
us  and  break  our  hearts — never ! — never !  f  '  I 

"  This,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  and  with  a  bitterness  in 
his  tones  that  Cineas  had  never  known  before,  "  this  is  why  I 
hate  the  Christians.  They  are  the  ones  who  present  this 
mockery,  this  phantom,  before  us,  in  all  its  hideous  bareness. 
Listen. 

"  A  man  came  who  pretended  to  teach  some  new  doctrines. 
He  gained  followers.  Any  man  can  get  followers,  no  matter 
what  he  says.  These  disciples  of  his  pretended  that  he  was 
the  Messiah.  He  pretended  the  same.  He  said  he  was  de- 
scended from  our  Royal  House,  and  was  King  of  the  Jews. 
He  was  tried  for  this,  condemned,  and  executed." 

Isaac  gnashed  his  teeth  as  he  came  to  this.  His  rage  made 
him  almost  inarticulate. 

"  What — what  can  you  think  was  the  result  of  this  1  Did 
his  followers  disperse?  No.  They  dared  to  get  up  a  new 
deception.  They  dared  to  say  that  he  had  arisen  from  the 
dead  ;  and  still  continued  with  a  thousand-fold  more  zeal  than 
ever  to  proclaim  that  this  malefactor  was  the  Messiah. 

"  The  agonising  part  of  all  this  to  a  Jew  was  the  hideous 
appearance  of  reason  which  their  arguments  possessed.  They 
referred  all  our  prophecies  to  this  man.  They  took — all — all — 
all.  They  are  the  men  who  say  that  in  these  prophecies  all  is 
spiritual,  and  that  the  Messiah  has  come  as  a  teacher,  to  con- 
vince the  minds  of  men. 

"  Worse  than  this.  They  take  all  our  hopes,  all  our  aspira- 
tions, all  the  promises  of  our  God  to  us,  hlj  chosen  ones, — they 
give  all  these  to  other  alien  races.  They  proclaim  the  teach- 
ings of  their  crucified  Master  to  all  races,  and  teach  that  the 
Jew  has  no  greater  privileges  or  hopes  than  any  other  man. 
The  worst  of  all  their  teachers  is  this  Paul,  who  is  now  in 
Rome — who  glories  in  this  doctrir*; — a  renegade  Jew,  an 
apostate,  a  traitor  to  his  country,  a  betrayer  of  his  God. 


^f 


V 


136 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 


X  -^ 


"  Alas  for  the  agonies,  the  long,  long  agonies  of  our  race,  if 
it  is  to  end  in  this ;  if  the  hope  of  our  final  triumph  is  thus  to 
be  dashed  to  pieces  by  him  who  inspired  us  with  it !  But  no. 
Never,  never  will  I  let  the  tempter  rob  me  of  my  faith  in  him  ! 
Though  he  slay  me  and  my  race,  yet  will  I  trust  in  him  !  He 
will  fulfil  his  promise.  He  will  bless  his  people.  I  will  praise 
and  bless  his  holy  name  as  long  as  I  live. 

"  No — no  !  He  will  do  what  he  has  said.  For  our  prophets 
have  clearly  indicated  the  time,  and  that  time  is  at  hand.  We 
expected  him  years  ago,  but  now  he  must  come  soon.  All  the 
events  that  now  occur  show  this.  The  Jews  are  all  in  the 
attitude  of  hope  and  expectation.  They  watch  for  his  coming. 
But  oh  I  it  breaks  the  heart  to  wait,  and  wait,  and  still  say, 
*  Will  he  never  come  V  " 

Isaac  paused,  and  then  clasping  his  hands,  he  raised  them 
over  his  head,  and,  with  streaming  eyes,  he  cried  out : — 

"'Oh,  that  thou  wouldst  rend  the  heavens — 
That  thou  wouldst  come  down- 
That  the  mountains  might  flow  down  at  thy  presence, 
As,  when  the  melting  fire  bumeth,  the  fire  causeth  the  waters  to  boil, 
To  make  thy  name  known  to  thine  adversaries. 
That  the  nations  may  tremble  at  thy  presence !  , 

When  thou  didst  terrible  things  that  we  looked  not  for. 
Thou  camest  down  ;  the  mountains  flowed  down  at  thy  presence. 
For,  since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  men  have  not  heard  nur  perceived  by  the  ear. 
Neither  hath  the  eye  seen,  O  God,  beside  thee. 
What  he  hath  prepared  for  him  that  waiteth  for  him.' " 


.;(!!' 


He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  resumed, — 

"  '  Thou  hast  hid  thy  face  from  us. 

And  hast  consumed  us  because  of  our  iniquities ; 

But  now,  O  Lord  I  thou  art  our  Father : 

We  are  the  clay,  and  thou  our  potter. 

And  we  are  all  the  work  of  thine  hands. 

Be  not  wroth  very  sore,  O  Lord !  neither  remember  iniquity  for  ever. 

Behold,  see,  we  beseech  thee,  we  are  all  thy  people. 

The  holy  cities  are  a  wilderness ;  Zion  a  wilderness  ;  Jerusalem  a  desolation  I ' " 

Isaac  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  was  silent  for  a  long 
time.     Cineas  marvelled  at  the  words  which  he  had  spoken. 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  JEWS. 


The  depth  of  humiliation,  the  sad  confession  of  sin,  the  mourn- 
ing over  a  nation's  woe,  which  they  expressed,  was  blended 
with  a  lofty  confidence  in  the  Deity,  which  seemed  to  express, 
even  in  the  depths  of  sorrow,  an  unfaltering  trust.  Still  he  felt 
that  Isaac's  words  expressed  a  desire  after  a  great  conqueror, 
some  king  who  should  reduce  the  world  to  subjection  under 
Jerusalem.  He  wondered  why  such  an  idea  still  kept  its  hold 
of  a  people  who  saw  before  their  eyes  the  resistless  power  of 
Rome. 

At  last,  after  some  time,  Isaac  looked  up.  He  was  calm. 
A  melancholy  smile  was  on  his  face. 

"  I  know  not  how  to  apologize,"  said  he,  "  most  noble 
Cineas,  for  my  extreme  agitation.  The  subject  which  has 
been  brought  before  me  always  excites  me,  in  spite  of  myself. 
I  lose  my  self-control.  Pardon  me,  I  was  going  to  bring  to 
you  to-day  the  result  of  my  examinations.  Hegio  has  to 
account  for  ten  million  sesterces.  From  what  I  know  of  his 
affairs  he  is  well  able  to  make  it  good.  See,"  said  he,  and  he 
took  some  tablets  which  he  placed  before  Cineas,  "here  is 
the  result." 

Isaac  then  began  to  explain  the  accounts,  and  showed  to 
Cineas  the  whole  course  of  Hegio  since  the  family  had  come 
from  Britain.     It  showed  a  deficit  such  as  he  had  stated. 

Cineas  took  the  tablets,  and  said, — 

"  It  will  have  to  be  refunded  in  some  way  ;  Labeo  shall  see 
that  it  is  all  made  good,"  and  then  took  his  leave. 


\ 


XI. 


Ivi; 


Cfe^  ^toarb  f  unisfeib. 


jEGIO  had  long  since  found  out  the  terrible  mistake 
he  had  made  in  setting  Cineas  at  defiance.  After 
the  memorable  interview  with  him,  he  had  made 
inquiries,  anfl  found  out  that  Cineas  was  indeed 
all  that  he  had  stated,  and  even  more.  His  wealth,  learning, 
nobility,  and  reputation  laade  him  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
visitors  to  Rome.  Had  he  been  anything  except  an  illiterate 
freedman,  he  would  have  been  familiar  with  so  splendid  a 
name.  Even  his  patron,  Tigellinus,  could  only  call  him  a  fool, 
and  assure  him  that  he  would  rather  have  Cineas  for  a  friend 
than  an  enemy. 

The  return  of  Labeo  added  to  his  consternation.  For  Labeo 
came  back  in  triumph  and  in  honours,  the  herald  of  a  great 
victory,  the  bearer  of  laurelled  letters.  His  reception  by  Nero 
was  said  to  have  been  most  flattering.  Promotion  was  before 
him,  and  favour  and  advancement  at  court.  Pcfore  such  men 
Hegio  was  nothing. 

In  his  speculations  he  had  lost  money  and  made  it.  But  the 
suna  which  he  had  abstracted  from  the  funds  of  Labeo  was  large, 
and  might  be  discovered  on  a  strict  examination  of  the  accounts. 
If  a  crisis  came  and  all  was  discovered,  he  would  have  to  refund. 
He  could  not  run  away.  In  the  Roman  empire  there  was  no 
place  for  flight.  The  arms  of  the  Government  extended  every- 
where ;  and  a  man  like  Cineas  could  seize  Hegio  in  the  utter- 


THE  STEWARD  PUNISHED. 


139 


nios'c  parts  of  the  Roman  world.  If  he  could  not  make  good 
his  default,  the  direst  punishment  was  before  him.  Tigellinus 
would  not  interpose  in  such  a  case ;  in  fact,  such  a  man  as 
Hegio,  when  in  misfortune,  was  beneath  his  notice.  He  could 
only  conclude  to  be  guided  by  circumstances,  and  if  his  defal- 
cation were  discovered,  make  it  good  as  far  as  their  demands 
might  extend. 

At  last  the  end  came. 

One  morning  Labeo  sent  for  him,  and  he  obeyeu  the  sum- 
mons. It  is  a  singular  fact,  that  Hegio,  with  all  his  impudence, 
stood  in  very  great  awe  of  Labeo,  and  dreaded  him  more  than 
any  other  man  on  earth.  Perhaps  it  was  the  physical  supe- 
riority of  his  master,  his  stature  and  strength,  his  iron  frame  and 
massive  build ;  or  it  may  have  been  his  stern  Roman  nature, 
with  all  its  .i.  less  energy  and  indomitable  will.  These  qual- 
ities were  the  very  ones  which  distinguished  Labeo,  and  were 
feared  by  the  Syrian.  Or  it  may  have  been  some  mysterious 
presentiment  that  this  man  would  one  day  be  the  dispenser  of 
his  fate — an  inexplicable  forecast  of  the  future ;  a  second  sight, 
as  the  saying  is,  of  things  yet  to  be.  Whatever  the  cause  may 
have  been,  Hegio  had  this  awe  of  Labeo ;  and  in  their  inter- 
views he  never,  in  all  his  life,  had  looked  his  master  fairly  in 
the  face ;  but  usually  on  such  occasions  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground,  and  owned  the  influence  of  a  stronger  nature. 

When  he  appeared,  he  found  Labeo  stem  and  severe.  All 
was  known,  for  Cineas  had  told  him  all.  Hegio  soon  saw  that 
there  was  no  hope.  By  some  means  or  other,  unknown  to 
himself,  Labeo  had  discovered  the  full  extent  of  the  deficit. 

Hegio  at  once  resolved  to  yield.  He  did  not  see  how  he 
could  do  otherwise.  The  position  of  Labeo  rendered  a  con- 
flict with  him  impossible ;  and  he  had  resolved,  if  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  to  sacrifice  everything,  for  he  well  knew  that 
no  other  course  was  possible. 

So  when  Labeo  presented  to  him  the  statement  of  his  affairs. 


'm 


'    -. 


V 


140 


THE  STEWARD  PUNISHED. 


m^ 

1 

'J 

1 

1 

i: 

1 

if 


and  questioned  hinn  as  to  his  disposal  of  various  moneys,  Hegio 
said  that  he  had  used  his  revenues  for  the  benefit  of  the  estate. 
The  whole  amount  which  Labeo  thought  a  deficit  was  safe. 
His  speculations  had  not  been  fortunate,  but  there  had  been 
no  loss.  All  was  secure,  and  was  available  at  any  moment. 
Labeo  dryly  informed  him  that  such  speculations  were  not  what 
he  had  wished,  and  that  his  steward  had  no  business  to  run  any 
risk  by  using  his  money  in  such  a  way.  His  duty  was  to 
collect  all  revenues,  and  take  care  of  them,  not  to  speculate,  or 
to  risk  it  in  wild  adventures  in  Africa. 

To  all  that  Labeo  said,  Hegio  simply  responded  that  all  was 
safe ;  that  he  had  made  no  wild  speculations ;  that  he  had  only 
done  thus  for  the  good  of  his  roaster,  and  could  account  for 
every  obol.  In  fact,  the  jwhole  thing  ended  by  the  repayment 
of  the  missing  money,  and  Hegio  left  his  master,  penniless. 

Penniless,  but  filled  with  thoughts  of  vengeance.  For  Labeo 
dismissed  him ;  sent  him  away  ignominiously ;  threatened  to 
destroy  him;  forbade  him  from  ever  coming  again  into  his 
presence ;  and  all  the  bitter  hate  of  Hegio  was  roused,  and 
he  retired  from  the  estate,  deeming  himself  a  ruined  man,  and 
swearing  within  himself  to  wreak  some  revenge  for  all  this  if 
ever  the  fates  should  giv^e  him  the  power. 

So  Hegio  was  got  rid  of. 

On  the  day  when  this  occurred,  Carbo  paid  a  visit  to  the 
house  of  Labeo.     He  heard  of  the  eveut. 

"  So  your  scoundrel  has  gone.  Well,  let  him  go,"  said  he ; 
"  let  him  go  and  join  his  fortunes  with  those  of  Tigellinus.  He 
will  make  a  better  employer  than  your  noble  Labeo.  Oh,  these 
Syrians  !  these  Syrians  !  the  city  is  full  of  them !  All  Syria  has 
come  to  Rome,  and  brought  here  their  language  and  manners 
and  customs,  their  drums  and  dancing  girls.  This  is  the  curse 
of  Rome.  Am  I  not  right  in  flying  from  these  1  Ought  I  to 
live  in  Rome  when  men  like  Hegio  may  have  a  higher  place 
than  I  at  the  table,  and  enjoy  the  favour  of  the  great  ?    Men 


THE  STEWARD  PUNISHED. 


141 


like  this  can  succeed  there.  They  flatter,  they  favour,  they 
worm  themselves  into  the  confidence  of  great  houses,  they 
control  their  affairs,  and  look  down  with  contempt  upon  honest, 
old-fashioned  Romans." 

"  It  must  have  taken  all  that  he  had  in  the  world  to  make 
up  that  deficiency,"  said  Cineas.     "  He  can  have  nothing  left." 

"  Oh,  he  has  plenty — plenty.  The  rogue  has  not  speculated 
for  nothing.  And  suppose  he  is  poor,  he  can  soon  grow  rich 
again.  He  will  insinuate  himself  into  the  confidence  of  some 
one  else.  These  are  the  men  who  gain  power  and  influence 
now.  Rome  is  no  place  for  honest  men,  or  for  poor  men  if 
they  are  honest.  All  poor  Romans  ought  to  emigrate.  But 
fortunately  all  the  world  is  not  in  Rome.  There  are  plenty  of 
places  where  the  old-fashioned  simplicity  may  still  be  found. 
There's  Praeneste  and  Gabii  and  Tibur,  where  no  one  need  be 
afraid  of  their  houses  tumbling  down  or  burning  up.  But  one 
lives  in  Rome  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  Why,  a  great  part  of  the 
city  is  only  kept  up  by  props.  The  scoundrel  overseer  orders 
some  dangerous  gap  in  the  wall  of  a  house  to  be  carelessly 
plastered  up,  and  goes  his  way.  The  next  day  down  tumbles 
the  crazy  old  edifice  and  crushes  the  family.  Think  of  the  fires 
at  night.  I  believe  Rome  will  all  be  burned  up  some  day.  I 
wonder  how  it  has  escaped  so  long.  But  now  things  have  come 
to  such  a  pass,  that  I  sometimes  look  toward  the  city  and  see  a 
dozen  houses  burning  almost  every  night  in  as  many  different 
localities.  This  r'  ^n't  do  for  a  poor  man,  for  he  loses  his  all. 
It's  very  well  for  a  rich  one,  though.  Let  some  rich  man  burn 
up  his  house,  and  the  next  day  all  his  friends  send  him  rare 
presents, — statues,  vases,  pictures,  ornaments  of  gold  and 
silver,  books,  and  even  money.  Your  rich  man  gains  better 
things  than  those  which  he  lost;  but  everybody  understands 
the  trick.  When  Rome  is  burned  up,  it  will  be  done  by  rich 
men.     I  only  hope  they  may  all  be  burned  out  together. 

"  There's  no  government  in  Rome.     A  poor  man  goes  out 


II 


m 


..'■''«■■ 


142 


THE  STEWARD  PUNISHED. 


dfter  dark  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  Then,  windows  are  thrown 
open  as  he  goes  along,  and  ponderous  fragments  of  crockery 
are  pitched  out  into  the  street.  I  always  feel  thankful  when  I 
find  that  nothing  more  than  the  contents  of  these  vessels  are 
thrown  down.  But  that  is  nothing.  One's  life  is  in  danger 
now  from  far  more  serious  causes.  The  city  at  night  is  given 
up  to  bands  of  miscreants,  who  roam  the  streets  drunken  and 
quarrelsome.  If  they  see  a  very  rich  man,  with  a  long  train  of 
attendants,  they  know  enough  to  keep  away  from  him  ;  but  if 
they  meet  a  poor  man  unattended,  then  they  fall  on  him,  and 
all  that  he  can  ask  or  pray  for  is  that  he  may  be  allowed  to  get 
home  with  one  or  two  teeth  left  in  his  head.  This  thing  is 
worse  now  than  ever.  The  young  men  make  a  business  of  it 
Such  an  one  feels  miseral^le  unless  he  has  knocked  somebody 
down  ;  he  can't  sleep  at  night  for  grief.  The  greatest  men  are 
the  worst ;  and  I  am  not  afraid  to  say  that  the  worst  one  of  all 
is  Caesar." 

"  Caesar  !  "  said  Cineas.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  roams 
the  streets,  and  knocks  people  down  1" 

"Can  anything  that  Caesar  does  be  surprising  1"  returned 
Carbo,  with  a  world  of  bitterness  in  his  tone.  "  Is  any  crime, 
any  infamy,  too  great  1  But  it  is  not  safe  to  begin  to  "peak  on 
such  a  subject.  Rome  has  a  ruler  at  last  worthy  of  it.  But 
this  is  a  thing  that  cannot  endure  for  ever.  Julius  had  his 
Brutus ;  Caius  his  Chaerea ;  Nero  will  find  his  fate  in  some  one 
whom  the  gods  will  send." 

Carbo  was  venturing  upon  dangerous  ground  ;  but  he  prided 
himself  on  his  freedom  of  speech.  He  assailed  most  vehemently 
the  character  of  Nero,  told  all  the  stories  of  his  unspeakable 
crimes,  and  denounced  vengeance  on  lis  head.  It  was  with 
some  relief  that  Cineas  saw  him  go  ;  for  he  feared  that  some  of 
the  servants  of  the  house  might  overhear  the  fuiious  old  man. 


XII. 


Cfe^  l^mpl^itfe^atrc. 


|ARCUS  had  never  been  at  the  amphitheatre,  and  his 
father  determined  to  give  him  what  he  thought 
would  be  a  great  amusement.  So  one  day  he  took 
him  there.  It  was  before  the  days  of  the  famous 
Coliseum ;  but  this  edifice  was  of  colossal  size,  though  it  did 
not  possess  the  grandeur  of  its  successor. 

As  they  entered  and  took  their  seats,  a  wonderful  scene  pre- 
sented itself.  All  around  were  the  numerous  seats,  filled  with 
myriads  of  human  beings,  of  all  ranks  and  ages.  On  the  lower 
seats  were  the  better  class  of  the  population,  while  the  populace 
were  further  away.  Upon  a  raised  seat  at  one  extremity  was 
the  emperor. 

Several  fights  had  already  taken  place,  and,  as  they  entered, 
there  was  a  short  pause.  Soon  the  fights  were  resumed.  Some 
hand-to-hand  combats  took  place,  with  various  weapons.  In 
the  first  one,  the  fight  was  ended  by  one  of  the  combatants 
striking  another  to  the  heart.  Marcus  saw  the  blood  spouting 
forth;  he  saw  the  man  fall  dead;  he  heard  the  roar  of  acclama- 
tion go  up  all  around  him. 

He  hid  his  face  against  his  father's  arm,  and  shuddered. 

"  Father,  I  want  to  go  home." 

He  gasped  out  this,  in  scarce  audible  tones,  as  his  father 
bent  down  to  ask  hin^  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Why  1    Are  you  sick,  dear  boy  ? " 


11 '' 


4  rM 


144 


THE  AMPHITHEA  TRE. 


"Yes;  I  cannot  look  on  and  see  men  killed.'* 

"  Oh !  is  that  all  ? "  said  Labeo,  with  a  feeling  of  relief. 
"  Never  mind.  You'll  soon  grow  accustomed  to  it.  Remem- 
ber you  oaid  you  were  going  to  be  a  brave  soldier.  So  you 
must  begin  now  to  see  men  fighting  and  killing  one  another. 
You  are  a  Roman." 

Marcus  shuddered,  and  clung  more  closely  to  his  father. 

"  Come,  dear  boy,  look  up.     They  are  fighting." 

Marcus  summoned  up  all  his  childish  resolution,  and  forced 
himself  to  look  again  upon  the  scene.  But  the  sight  of  the 
struggling  men,  covered  with  blood  and  dust,  and  panting  and 
howling  in  the  rage  of  the  fight,  was  too  much  for  him.  Again 
he  shivered  with  horror,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  father's 
breast.  ' 

"  I  cannot !     Oh,  I  cannot ! "  he  sobbed. 

"  Come,  my  own  boy,  I  know  you  are  not  a  coward,"  said 
Labeo,  after  a  long  pause.  "  Come,  be  a  Roman  boy !  See, 
all  the  men  have  gone  away,  and  they  are  going  to  bring  for- 
ward the  wild  beasts.     Come.     Try  to  look  at  this." 

Again  Marcus  raised  his  face,  and  seemed  to  tear  it  away 
from  its  shelter,  and  force  his  eyes,  with  all  his  strength,  to 
suivey  the  scene. 

He  saw  the  arena,  with  only  one  man  upon  it  This  man 
stood  in  the  centre,  with  his  face  toward  them,  armed  only 
with  a  short  sword.  He  was  tall,  broad-shouldered,  and  power- 
fully built.  His  magnificent  frame  showed  a  splendid  muscular 
development.  He  had  light  hair,  which  was  long,  and  hung 
down  in  thick  masses.  His  face  was  stern  and  bold,  and,  as 
he  looked  around  upon  the  spectators,  his  whole  manner  indi- 
cated a  calm  and  lordly  indifference. 

"I  can  tell  you  all  about  him,"  said  Labeo,  thinking  to 
divert  his  boy's  feelings  from  that  horror  which  had  so  over- 
whelmed him.  "  I  can  tell  you  all  about  him.  He  is  a  Briton. 
He  was  captured  by  our  soldiers,  and  sent  here  among  the 


THE  AMPHITHEA  TRE, 


»45 


prisoners.  He  has  been  in  training  for  some  time,  and  all 
Rome  is  excited  about  him.  He  promises  to  be  a  fine 
gladiator." 

Labeo  was  here  interrupted  by  a  loud  roar,  which  came  from 
the  vivarium^  where  the  wild  beasts  were  confined.  Labeo 
expected  that  Marcus  would  be  terrified  at  this;  but,  to  his 
surprise,  the  boy  junjped  to  his  feet,  with  glistening  eyes,  and, 
in  eager  excitement,  looked  to  see  where  it  came  from. 

Roar  followed  roar. 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  1 "  asked  Labeo. 

Marcus  did  not  hear  him.  Labeo  did  not  understand  the 
delicate  sensitiveness  of  his  son.  It  was  the  sight  of  human 
blood — the  death  of  men — that  horrified  him. 

Soon  iron  gratings  were  flung  open,  and  a  tiger  bounded 
forth.  He  had  not  had  any  food  for  several  day?  and  his  fero- 
city was  terrific.  He  stood  for  a  moment,  with  glaring  eyes, 
lashing  his  sides.     Then  he  saw  the  Briton. 

He  uttered  a  savage  growl. 

The  Briton  eyed  him  calmly.  The  tiger,  with  a  wild  bound, 
leaped  toward  him.  Finally,  he  crouched,  and  then,  with  a 
tremendous  spring,  leaped  directly  at  him. 

But  the  Briton  was  prepared.  Leaping  nimbly  to  one  side, 
he  struck  a  short,  sharp  blow.  It  was  fatal.  The  huge  beast 
gave  a  frightful  howl,  and,  with  a  convulsive  spasm,  fell  dead 
upon  the  sand. 

A  loud  roar  of  applause  rose,  like  a  thunder-peal,  from  the 
vast  assembly.  Marcus  shouted  with  the  rest,  and  clapped  his 
hands. 

"  My  own  brave  boy  i "  said  Labeo,  proudly.  "  I  knew  you 
would  like  it  at  last." 

"Yes;  but  oh,  father,  not  where  men  are  killed!  It  is  too 
fearful." 

"  Wait  and  see,"  said  Labeo. 

The  carcase  of  the  tiger  was  drawn  away,  and  again  the 
(188)  lo 


hfi 


% 


t   I   X. 


iili''' 

% 

m 

m 

■f  ! 

!  n- 

1  IM  i! 

•■*■* 

'  '''r'M 

1  i 

'  ^1 

■n  ^ 

ii 

■  -'f-  \ 

If 

;t  ; 

Idi 

■;li 

II 

■m 

Wi 

'^mi 

Hi 

'  vffil 

H 

iiili 

1 

146 


THE  AMPiriTirEA  TRE. 


creak  of  a  grating,  as  it  swung  apart,  attracted  attention.  This 
time  it  was  a  lion.  He  came  forth  slowly,  and  looked  all 
around  upon  the  scene,  as  if  in  surprise.  He  was  the  largest 
of  his  species — a  giant  in  size — and  had  long  been  preserved 
for  some  superior  antagonist.  He  seemed  capable  of  encoun- 
tering two  animals  like  the  tiger  that  had  preceded  him.  Be- 
side him,  the  Briton  looked  like  a  child. 

The  lion  had  fasted  long;  but  he  showed  no  fury  like  that  of 
the  tiger.  He  walked  across  the  arena,  and  completely  around 
it,  in  a  kind  of  trot,  as  though  searching  for  escape.  Finding 
every  side  closed,  he  finally  retreated  to  the  centre,  and,  put- 
ting his  mouth  close  to  the  ground,  he  uttered  a  roar  so  deep, 
so  loud,  and  so  long,  that  the  whole  amphitheatre  vibrated  at 
the  sound. 

The  Briton  did  not  move.  Not  a  muscle  of  his  face  changed. 
He  carried  his  head  erect,  with  a  watchful  expression,  and  held 
his  sword  ready.  At  length  the  lion  turned  full  upon  him,  and 
the  wild  beast  and  the  man  stood  face  to  face,  eyeing  one 
another.  But  the  calm  gaze  of  the  man  seemed  to  give  the 
animal  discomfort,  and  fill  him  with  wrath.  He  started  back, 
with  his  hair  and  tail  erect ;  and,  tossing  his  mane,  he 
crouched  for  the  dreadful  spring.  The  vast:  multitude  sat 
spell-bound.  Here,  indeed,  was  a  sight  such  as  might  not  be 
often  seen.  The  dark  form  of  the  lion  darted  forward;  but 
again  the  gladiator,  with  his  former  manoeuvre,  leaped  aside 
and  struck.  This  time,  however,  his  sword  struck  a  rib.  It 
fell  from  his  hand.  The  lion  was  slightly  wounded ;  but  the 
blow  only  served  to  rouse  his  fury  to  the  highest  point. 

Yet,  in  that  awful  moment,  the  Briton  lost  not  one  jot  of  his 
coolness.  Perfectly  unarmed,  he  stood  before  the  beast,  wait- 
ing the  attack.  Again  and  again  the  lion  sprung;  but  each 
time  he  was  evaded  by  the  nimble  gladiator,  who,  by  his  own 
adroit  movements,  contrived  to  reach  the  spot  where  his  weapon 
lay,  and  gain  possession  of  it.     Armed  with  his  trusty  sword, 


if    'I 


THE  AMrmrilEATRE. 


M/ 


he  now  wailed  for  the  final  spring,  'i'he  lion  came  down  as 
before;  but  this  time  the  Briton's  aim  was  true.  The  sword 
pierced  his  heart.  The  enormous  boast  fell,  writhing  in  pain. 
Rising  again  to  his  feet,  he  ran  across  the  arena,  and,  with  a 
last  roar,  he  fell  dead  by  the  bars  at  which  he  had  entered. 

But,  though  victorious,  these  efforts  had  told  upon  the  gla- 
diator. He  lay  down,  resting  upon  his  arm  and  looking  upon 
the  ground.  His  heavy  panting  could  be  perceived  from  the 
seats  above.  For  the  lion  had  allowed  him  scarce  a  breathing 
space  in  that  dread  encounter,  and  he  was  now  utterly  ex- 
hausted. 

But  the  Romans  never  knew  mercy.  The  attendants  came 
forward,  and  among  lem  was  a  man  armed  with  a  helmet  and 
sword.  They  threw  a  net  and  trident  to  the  Briton,  and  left 
him  to  a  new  opponent. 

This  was  the  armed  gladiator.  He  was  an  African,  as  robust 
as  the  Briton,  and  of  equal  agility.  There  was  no  pity,  no 
mercy,  no  such  sentiment  even  as  a  sense  of  fair  play,  among 
a  people  who  could  thus  consent  ^o  match  in  battle  a  man 
wearied  with  two  most  fatiguing  contests  and  one  who  was 
altogether  fresh. 

The  Briton  slowly  and  wearily  rose  to  his  feet,  and  took  the 
net  and  trident.  A  third  battle  was  not  expected,  and  he 
seemed  to  lose  spirit.  He  made  an  effort,  however,  and  threw 
the  net  at  his  adversary.  It  missed.  The  Briton  then  ran, 
and  the  African  followed.  It  was  one  of  the  most  common 
contests  of  the  arena ;  and  had  the  Briton  been  fresh,  he  might 
have  conquered.  But  he  ran  slowly,  trying  to  re-ai  range  the 
net  for  another  throw.  The  African,  fresh  and  agile,  gained  on 
him  at  every  step.  At  last  the  Briton  turned,  and  raised  his 
net  to  throw.  The  next  moment  the  African  plunged  his  sword 
into  his  side.     The  Briton  fell. 

At  that  stroke  a  loud,  wild  shriek  arose.  It  came  from 
Marcus.     He  flung  himself  into  his  father's  arms. 


II 


\ 


I  ' 


i  ^ 


1 

1 

1  :* 

■I^bH  >i 

If 

■j 

li 
,1 

/^ 


'''INP 


THE  AMPHITHEA  IRE. 


"Oh,  save  him  I  save  him!"  he  gasped.  "Get  him  away! 
save  him!"  >  •  ^  v 

Labeo  tried  to  soothe  him,  but  in  vain.  The  boy  repelled 
his  caresses  with  a  passion  of  sorrow,  and  only  cried,  "  Save 
him  ! "  as  before.  So  Labeo  took  Marcus  in  his  arms,  and  left 
the  place,  with  the  intention  of  seeing  if  anything  could  be 
done. 

Meanwhile  the  Briton  lay  where  he  had  fallen,  the  African 
standing  over  him.  It  was  a  case  where  the  spectators  should 
decide  the  file  of  the  vanquished.  The  African  looked  up. 
The  Briton,  too,  after  a  few  minutes,  struggled  up,  and  leaned 
on  his  arm,  with  his  drooped  head  gradually  sinking  down 
again, 

"And  from  his  side  the  last  drops  ebbing  slow." 

\ 

A  roar  of  acclamation  had  greeted  the  victory  of  the  African, 
and  some  time  elapsed  before  it  subsided.  With  these  in- 
human spectators  rested  the  fate  of  a  brave  man.  It  was  soon 
decided.  These  spectators  had  conceived  a  high  opinion  of 
the  Briton.  Long  had  it  been  since  they  had  seen  such  a 
victory  over  wild  beasts  as  he  had  shown  them.  This  lion 
which  he  had  killed  had  been  the  terror  of  all  the  gladiators. 
They  were  not  willing  to  lose  so  good  a  fighter.  He  should 
live;  he  should  afford  tiiem  more  T>leasure.  They  would  let 
him  recover  from  his  wound  if  he  could.  So,  as  the  African 
looked  up,  he  saw  the  signal  from  all  their  hands,  which  meant 
life.  He  turned  carelessly  away,  and  the  attendants,  coming 
forward,  raised  the  wounded  man.  and  carried  him  off. 

Labeo  himself  had  been  disgusted  by  the  last  fight.  His  life 
had  been  passed  to  a  great  extent  in  other  countries;  and, 
though  he  was  familiar  enough  with  the  amphitheatre,  yet  he 
had  not  been  able  to  become  a  regular  attendant.  He  had 
not  acquired  the  real  cold-blooded  cruelty  which  distinguished 
the  common  spectator.  He  felt  interested  in  the  Briton,  and 
determined  to  do  for  him  what  he  could. 


THE  AMPHITHEATRE. 


149 


s  life 
and, 
!t  he 

had 
shed 

and 


Followed  by  Marcus,  he  went  along  the  lower  corridors,  till 
he  came  to  the  gladiators'  quarters.  As  he  entered,  he  saw  a 
confused  scene.  Gladiators  were  all  around,  laughing,  quarrel- 
ling, or  drinking  wine.  He  took  his  boy  in  his  arms,  and  asked 
some  men  near  him  where  the  Briton  was.  He  did  not  know 
how  the  scene  in  the  arenr,  had  ended ;  but  he  thought  that  he 
might  have  been  spared,  since  he  was  too  good  to  be  thrown 
away.  The  men  whom  he  spoke  to  pointed  carelessly  to  the 
other  comer  of  the  apartment  Making  a  way  through  the 
crowd,  he  went  there,  and  found  the  object  of  his  search. 

He  had  been  rudely  thrown  on  the  ground,  in  a  corner,  so 
as  to  be  out  of  the  way,  and  was  left  to  himself.  No  one 
cared  for  him.  or  attempted  to  stanch  his  wounds.  As  Marcus 
caught  sight  of  him  in  his  misery,  he  uttered  a  long,  low  cry.  He 
made  his  father  put  him  down,  and  caught  the  gladiator's  hand. 

"  O  father,  how  he  suffers !  Will  he  die  t  Won't  you  save 
him  ?  How  cruel  to  kill  him  !  Save  him,  my  dearest  father  1 
Oh,  see  how  he  bleeds,  and  how  pale  he  is !  And  his  poor 
eyes  are  closed !" 

The  gladiator  half  opened  his  eyes;  and,  amid  his  agony, 
there  was  an  expression  of  faint  surprise  that  any  one  should 
think  of  him. 

"  O  father,"  said  Marcus,  with  eyes  filled  with  tears,  "  will 
you  take  him  away  1  You  will,  for  your  little  boy.  If  you  love 
me,  father  dearest,  take  him  away.     See  how  he  suffers  1 " 

The  whole  manner  of  his  son — his  tears,  his  eager  solicitude, 
and  his  persistence — was  more  than  Labeo  could  resist  Be- 
sides, though  a  Roman  soldier,  and  familiar  with  scenes  of 
blood,  there  was  something  in  this  sight  which  shocked  his 
sense  of  justice. 

So  he  at  once  called  some  of  the  guards  and  ordered  them 
to  remove  the  Briton.  His  rank  enforced  obedience ;  and  the 
men  carried  the  wounded  gladiator  away  to  another  apartment, 
where  they  laid  him  on  some  straw. 


''vm 

II 

m 


r 


ISO 


THE  AMPHITHEATRE. 


I        :V 


I  I' 


"  Now,  send  some  one  here  to  attend  to  his  wounds,"  said 
Labeo.  •  "-  •  • 

An  attendant  soon  came,  who  examined  the  wound,  and 
dressed  it  after  a  rough  fashion. 

" Father,"  said  Marcus,  "you  shall  not  leave  him  here." 

"What?    Why,  what  can  I  do?" 

"  You  must  take  him  away." 

"Awayl    Whe-eto]" 

"  Home." 

"  What  could  I  do  with  a  gladiator,  dear  boy  1  I  don't  want 
him  to  fight  for  me." 

"  Oh,  no — I  want  him.  Give  him  to  me,  my  dearest  father. 
I  want  to  save  his  life,  and  have  him  for  my  own." 

"  Well — you  have  strange  fancies,"  murmured  Labeo,  "  but 
I  suppose  I  must  do  what  you  say."  t 

"  Look — he  sees  us — he  knows  that  we  are  his  friends,"  cried 
Marcus,  eagerly. 

The  gladiator  half  opened  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  have  some 
dim  perception  of  the  truth.  He  saw  the  sweet  child-face,  with 
the  glory  of  its  expression  of  love  and  pity;  the  eyes  beaming 
with  tender  interest,  and  fixed  on  his.  He  looked  at  the 
face  in  wonder.  It  seemed  like  a  new  idea.  He  was  be- 
wildered. 

Marcus  took  his  hand  again. 

"  Father,  dear  father,  let  him  be  mine.  You  will — won't 
you  1  You  will  save  him  and  give  him  to  me — won't  you — and 
bring  him  home  with  usi" 

"  Why,  not  now,"  said  Labeo,  hesitatingly. 

"Well,  when  will  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  must  see  some  people  first  and  ask ;  and  then,  dear 
boy,  I  will  bring  him  out  for  you." 

"  My  dearest  father,  I  knew  you  would.  And  he  shall  be 
treated  well,"  said  Marcus,  "  and  recover  from  this  cruel 
wound." 


\\y: 


THE  AMPHITHEATRE. 


xSi 


All  this  time  Marcus  had  held  the  gladiator's  hand  in  both 
his,  and  the  wounded  man  lay  looking  at  him.  By-and-by  the 
expression  of  bewilderment  gave  way  to  one  of  deep  devotion. 
He  seemed  to  understand  what  it  meant.  He  discovered  that 
this  bright,  beautiful  being  was  interceding  for  his  life,  and 
trying  to  save  him  from  misery.  Feebly  and  with  a  slow  effort 
he  drew  the  delicate  hand  of  Marcus  upward,  and  held  it  for  a 
moment  against  his  lips.  Then  a  big  tear  rolled  from  each  eye 
and  fell  down  his  face. 

"  O  father,"  said  Marcus,  "  he  knows  that  I  am  sorry  for 
him.  See,  he  has  kissed  my  hand.  When  will  you  take  him 
out  of  this  hideous  place  1" 

"  Not  to-day,"  said  Labeo ;  "  but  I  will  speak  to  them,  and 
make  them  treat  him  kindly ;  and  then,  when  he  gets  a  little 
stronger,  I  will  have  him  brought  out." 

This  appeared  to  satisfy  Marcus.  His  father  then  called  the 
attendant  who  had  dressed  the  wounds  of  the  Briton,  and,  put- 
ting some  money  in  his  hand,  gave  directions  for  the  care  of 
the  wounded  man,  saying  at  the  same  time  that  he  intended  to 
have  him  removed  in  a  few  days,  if  he  recovered.  The  atten- 
dant thought  that  he  might  recover,  and  promised  to  follow  out 
all  Labeo's  directions.  • 

After  this  the  father  and  son  took  their  departure. 

"  Dear  father,"  said  Marcus,  as  they  were  leaving,  "  what 
makes  the  people  so  cruel  %  They  love  to  see  blood.  All  this 
breaks  my  heart.  I  will  never  come  here  again.  And  I  want 
so  much  to  get  that  poor  man  out  home.  How  he  suffered ! 
How  cruel  it  was !  and  when  he  had  been  so  brave,  too !  Oh, 
how  I  hope  he  will  get  well  soon.  But  what  makes  the  people 
so  cruel]" 

"  Oh,  they  are  not  cruel,"  said  Labeo,  trying  to  turn  it  off. 
"It  is  their  fashion.  They  have  always  been  so.  You  will 
learn  to  love  it  as  you  grow  older." 

"  Never,"  said  Marcus,  with  a  shudder ;  and  then,  after  a 


\. 


2  i*^ 


It ,  . 
"4 


r 


'5« 


TffE  AMPHITHEATRE. 


pause,  he  said  in  low,  reproachful  tones :  "  Do  you  want  me  to 
learn  to  be  so  cruel,  dearest  father?"  >, 

Labeo  looked  puzzled.    At  last  he  said, — 

"  Dear  boy,  when  you  get  to  be  a  soldier,  you  will  feel  dif- 
ferently." 

"  But  ought  a  soldier  to  be  cruel  1  You  are  not  a  cruel  man. 
You  would  not  hurt  a  poor  horse ;  and  I  never  saw  you  treat  a 
man  badly.  I  will  be  like  you ;  and  I  will  never  be  cruel.  I 
want  to  be  merciful.  That  is  what  nurse  taught  me.  She  says : 
'  Blessed  are  the  merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy.' " 

"  '  Blessed  are  the  merciful,' "  repeated  Labeo.  "  That  is  a 
wise  saying.  Yes,  dear  boy,  be  as  you  like.  You  have  a  good, 
noble  heart ;  and  I  will  not  bring  you  here  again  until  you  want 
to  come."  ,  * 


1] 


H 


r 


XIII. 


ii    "     ■-••-'•"■,    ■,-■■,■■■ 

|ARCUS  gave  his  father  no  rest  until  he  had  brought 
the  gladiator  out  to  his  villa.  The  wound  was 
severe,  but  the  strong  constitution  of  the  hardy 
Briton  proved  superior  to  the  shock,  and  he  rapidly 
recovered.  Marcus  attached  himself  to  him,  and  the  gladiator 
in  return  seemed  to  feel  for  this  pure  boy  a  sentiment  which 
amounted  to  adoration.  He  could  only  speak  a  few  broken 
words  of  Latin,  so  Marcus  tried  to  teach  it  to  him. 

The  Briton  said  that  his  name  was  Galdus,  and  that  he  had 
been  a  chief  of  the  Trinobantians.  Some  troubles  had  arisen 
about  supplies  of  com,  and  a  detachment  of  Roman  soldiers  had 
seized  some  from  his  people.  He  resisted,  and  in  the  fight  that 
ensued  the  small  detachment  was  put  to  flight.  Another  larger 
body  of  men  then  came,  and  in  the  course  of  affairs  Galdus  was 
taken  prisoner.  His  life  was  spared,  and  he  was  sent  to  Rome. 
He  had  been  selected  for  a  gladiator,  on  account  of  his  warlike 
mien  and  powerful  frame.  Such  was  his  story,  told  in  scarce 
intelligible  language,  but  with  a  deep  passion  of  hate  for  the 
Romans,  that  was  startling  to  his  childish  companion.  But 
Marcus  sympathized  with  Galdus  with  all  his  soul.  Tyranny 
and  oppression  of  all  kinds  were  shocking  to  him,  and  here 
stood  before  him  a  man  who  told  him  a  story  of  wrong  which 
he  had  endured,  that  filled  the  boy  with  vague  desires  to  punish 
somebody.     This  sympathy,  coming  from  such  a  source,  added 


f 


astt 


i! 


r 


M'il 


;  'I' 


IS'  ■     ^1 


^    ll 


^54 


CINPAS  AND  HELENA. 


new  strength  to  the  reverence  and  affection  which  Galdus  fell 
for  him,  and  made  him  devote  himself  incessantly  to  this  sweet 
child.  His  rugged,  barbaric  nature  found  a  strange  charm  in 
this  youthful  grace  and  delicacy,  and  Marcus  stood  before  him 
like  a  divinity. 

The  boy  reflected  with  proud  complacency  on  the  fact  that 
he  had  saved  this  heroic  barbarian.  He  was  his  patron. 
Whenever  he  was  not  with  his  father,  he  was  with  Galdus.  The 
two  might  be  seen  at  almost  any  hour  of  the  day,  walking 
together,  Galdus  following  Marcus  wherever  he  led  the  way, 
and  often  carrying  him  lovingly  in  his  arms.  As  time  went  on, 
he  told  Marcus  that  he  had  no  relatives  in  Britain.  All  had 
been  slain  in  battle,  and  his  father,  the  last  survivor,  had  died 
in  Camulodunum  before  he  left  Britain. 

One  day  all  Rome  was  startled  by  a  terrible  tragedy.  It  was 
the  murder  of  Pedanius,  who  lived  in  the  vxWa.  adjoining  Labeo's, 
by  one  of  his  own  slaves.  This  man  had  always  been  noted 
for  his  cruelty.  The  first  thing  that  Cineas  had  seen  when  he 
came  to  Labeo's  house  was  the  horrid  spectacle  of  the  crucified 
slaves  at  the  gate  of  Pedanius.  Of  all  the  Romans,  none  ex- 
celled him  in  cruelty.  This  tragedy  was  caused  by  an  act  of 
gross  injustice.  A  slave  of  his,  who  had  been  saving  money 
for  years,  so  as  to  purchase  his  freedom,  and  had  paid  the  larger 
part,  found  his  avaricious  master  unwilling  to  conclude  the  bar- 
gain. He  asked  an  additional  sum,  which,  with  that  which  had 
already  been  paid,  would  have  made  an  amount  larger  than  was 
ever  demanded  before.  It  would  have  taken  five  years  more 
of  labour  to  pay  it,  and  even  then  there  was  no  certainty  that 
he  would  get  his  liberty.  The  man  fell  into  the  deepest  dejec- 
tion, and  at  length  determined  on  revenge.  In  the  dead  of 
night  he  stole  into  the  bed-chamber  of  Pedanius  and  stabbed 
him.  The  body  was  found  in  the  morning  with  the  dagger  yet 
in  the  wound, 

A  thrill  of  horror  was  caused  throughout  the  neighbourhood 


A 


CINEAS  AND  HELENA. 


155 


lood 


and  in  the  city.  It  was  not  alone  the  assassination  or  the  con- 
sequences of  the  act ;  for  the  law  was,  that  under  such  circum- 
stances all  the  slaves  should  suffer  death  without  exception. 
Now,  as  there  were  four  hundred  slaves  on  the  estate,  the  pros- 
pect of  such  wholesale  execution  shocked  even  the  Romans. 
The  populace  of  Rome,  filled  with  compassion  for  so  many 
innocent  men,  opposed  the  execution  with  such  vehemence 
that  it  almost  amounted  ♦o  an  insurrection.  Rome  was  filled 
with  the  fiercest  excitement.  The  question  was  taken  up  b> 
the  Senate,  and  many  sided  with  the  people ;  but  most  who 
owned  slaves  themselves,  and  perhaps  felt  little  confidence  in 
their  good-will,  were  in  favour  of  upholding  the  law  in  all  its 
severity.  They  declared  if  the  law  were  repealed  there  would 
be  no  further  safety,  and  that  the  good  of  the  State  demanded 
the  execution  of  all. 

The  number  doomed  to  suffer,  their  age  and  sex,  and  the 
manifest  innocence  of  the  most  of  them,  created  pity  even 
among  the  Senate,  but  the  law  was  allowed  to  take  its  course. 
But  the  people  grew  more  clamorous  than  ever  in  favour  of  the 
slaves.  They  rose  in  arms,  filled  the  city  with  tumult,  and 
stopped  the  execution. 

Labeo  was  one  of  the  party  who  were  in  favour  of  mild  mea- 
sures, and  he  saw  with  horror  the  resolution  of  the  Senate.  But 
he  could  do  nothing.  Nero  was  determined  that  the  law  should 
take  its  course.  He  determined  to  enforce  it  without  mercy. 
He  issued  a  proclamation,  and  ordered  the  streets  to  be  filled 
with  soldiers,  and  so  the  people  were  kept  down,  and  the 
wretched  slaves  were  all  crucified,  amid  the  horror  of  the  whole 
city.  It  is  a  remarkable  thing  that  one  of  the  senators  actually 
wished  to  have  all  the  freedmen  executed  too ;  but  Nero,  in 
one  of  those  milder  moods  which  sometimes  came  upon  him, 
refused  to  have  it  done,  and  decided  ihat  if  it  was  just  to  main- 
tain the  ancient  laws  in  all  their  severity,  it  was  unjust  to  exceed 
their  rigour. 


V     !!fl 


156 


CINEAS  AND  HELENA. 


A 


This  whole  transaction  threw  a  deep  gloom  over  Labeo's 
house.  There  stood  the  villa  of  Pedanius  ever  in  sight,  aid  ever 
reminding  them  of  this  deed  of  sickening  horror.  Helena  fo'md 
that  she  could  no  longer  live  there  in  peace,  and  imploied  her 
husband  to  go  to  s>  >me  other  place  which  should  not  be  polluted 
by  such  revolting  associations.  Marcus,  too,  was  most  profoundly 
shocked.  His  keen  sense  of  justice  made  him  feel  most  acutely 
the  horrible  cruelty  of  the  execution,  and  he  never  walked 
near  the  boundaries  which  separated  the  two  estates.  He 
always  kept  on  the  further  side  of  it,  and  never  even  looked  at 
the  ill-omened  place  without  a  shudder.  Many  things  disturbed 
his  gentle  nature,  and  gave  him  a  knowledge  of  the  misery  and 
injustice  that  are  in  the  world.  The  sufferings  of  the  gladiators, 
the  wrongs  of  Galdus  ai^d  his  countrymen,  and  the  fearful  indis- 
criminating  vengeance  taken  on  the  slaves,  harassed  his  sensi- 
tive mind.  Again  he  put  his  oft  reiterated  questions,  "  What 
makes  the  Romans  so  cruel  1" — "  Is  there  no  mercy  at  all 
among  them  1"  For  man)  ^ays  there  was  a  seriousness  and 
sadness  on  his  face  that  was  quite  new,  and  a  troubled  expres- 
sion that  showed  some  deep  anxiety.  His  delicate  organization 
seemed  crushed  by  the  darkest  problems  of  life  which  were 
imposed  upon  it  too  soon. 

At  such  times  he  would  talk  to  Galdus,  and  tell  him  all  his 
feelings ;  not  because  Galdus  was  dearer  to  him  than  any  one 
else,  but  because  he  seemed  more  like  an  inferior.  He  could 
not  talk  with  such  freedom  on  such  subjects  to  his  father,  or 
mother,  or  Cineas.  They,  he  thought,  might  think  it  all  childish. 
But  Galdus  would  not.  Galdus  believed  all  he  said.  Galdus 
looked  up  to  him  and  revered  him.  So  he  told  all  his  feelings 
to  Galdus;  and  although  Galdus  did  not  know  the  language 
well  enough  to  understand  all,  yet  he  could  easily  comprehend 
the  grand  and  simple  first  truths  of  right  and  justice  which 
Marcus  uttered.  Neither  had  that  sense  of  right  distorted  by 
anything  conventional.     One  was  a  child,  the  other  a  barbarian, 


CINEAS  AND  HELENA. 


»57 


his 


or 

ish. 

dus 

fngs 


an. 


and  thus  had  one  common  ground,  in  that  they  were  both  near 
to  nature  and  far  from  art  or  artifice. 

But  the  agitation  of  Marcus  was  not  unnoticed  by  his  parents. 
They  thought  that  such  long  and  incessant  brooding  over  one 
terrible  theme  would  injure  his  health ;  and  this  added  strength 
to  Helena's  desire  to  move  away. 

Labeo  was  not  unwilling.  He  had  becon-e  a  pretty  constant 
attendant  at  court.  Nero  showed  him  marked  favour,  always 
called  him  Hercules,  and  the  common  opinion  was  that  he  was 
destined  to  rise  high  in  position  and  influence.  All  this  made 
him  quite  desirous  of  having  a  house  in  the  city;  and  so,  several 
months  afterwards,  the  whole  household  came  to  Rome. 

The  change  of  scene  had  a  favourable  effect  on  Marcus. 
The  house  was  a  noble  edifice,  surrounded  by  gardens,  on  the 
slope  of  the  Esquiline  Hill.  From  its  roof  there  was  a  com- 
manding prospect  of  the  city.  Under  the  charge  of  Galdus, 
Marcus  loved  to  be  taken  through  the  streets,  along  the  noisy 
and  crowded  Suburra,  or  into  the  bustling  busy  Forum.  He 
still  remembered  the  fearful  events  which  had  so  discomposed 
him,  but  less  vividly.  Gradually  other  things  came  to  interest 
him,  and  he  would  talk  to  his  confidant  Galdus  about  the  sights 
of  the  great  capital. 

By  the  time  that  they  moved  into  Rome,  the  nurse  had  re- 
covered completely,  and  was  as  well  as  ever.  Her  sweet, 
serene  face  once  more  might  be  seen  among  the  women  of  the 
household.  The  numerous  interviews  which  she  had  had  with 
her  mistress  had  given  rise  to  a  real  friendship,  in  which  the 
nurse's  position  as  slave  was  lost  sight  of  by  Helena.  A  new 
bond  was  also  formed  between  them  by  Helena's  Christian 
sympathies.  The  lofty  and  pure  sentiments  of  the  nurse  enabled 
her  to  present  to  her  mistress  in  the  most  attractive  form  the 
divine  doctrines  of  that  manuscript  which  she  had  obtained. 

The  close  sympathy  between  Cineas  and  his  sister  drew  them 
together  constantly.      He  understood  her.      He  sympathized 


m 


\:     '   jt 


,   * 


\ 


ij8 


CINE  AS  ^ND  HELENA. 


with  her  in  her  feelings.  When  she  spoke  of  the  Christian  reli- 
gion, he  seei.ied  eager  to  know  how  it  had  affected  her.  Ke 
said  that  this  stood  before  them  all  as  something  which  pos- 
sessed a  wonderful  charm,  and  perhaps  at  last  it  would  seem  to 
be  what  they  wanted.  Yet  although  he  was  strangely  moved 
by  its  doctrines,  he  found  many  difficulties. 

Helena,  in  speaking  on  this  theme,  found  an  enthusiasm  which 
she  had  not  shown  before ;  and  they  were  so  much  alike  that 
Cineas  invariably  fell  irto  the  same  mood,  and  sometimes  even 
shared  in  her  exultation  at  finding  the  truth  at  last. 

"  How  I  rejoice,  my  dearest,"  he  said,  "  that  you  have  found 
what  you  desiiec^  For  my  part,  I  am  more  critical  than  you. 
I  look  at  a  question  on  more  sides.  Perhaps  you  are  right,  but 
I  cannot  help  my  nature ;  besides,  I  have  many  things  which 
I  would  say,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  disturb  that  peace  of  mind 
which  you  have  gained." 

It  was  not  long  before  Helena  let  him  have  the  manuscript 
which  she  had  read  with  such  emotion.  He  accepted  it  gladly, 
and  spent  many  months  over  it,  till  the  words  and  doctrines 
were  all  familiar. 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  half  a  Christian,"  said  he,  once ;  "  and  if  I 
do  not  become  one  altogether,  at  least  I  will  receive  from  the 
Book  ideas  which  I  can  never  lose.  There  are  words  here 
which  I  might  call  divine,  and  which  seem  to  convey  to  me  in 
themselves  the  result  and  summing  up  of  whole  systems  of  phi- 
losophy. 

"  I  cannot  help  believing  that  this  wonderful  man  was  a 
divine  messenger  sent  by  God  to  that  people  to  teach  them. 
They  did  not  expect  one  like  him ;  they  looked  for  a  very  dif- 
ferent one,  as  Isaac  has  often  told  me. 

"  His  life  excites  my  wonder  and  admiration.  I  have  always 
tried  to  think  in  the  true  philosophic  spirit,  and  have  sometimes 
imagined  what  might  be  the  philosophic  outline  of  the  life  of 
such  a  Being.     I  have  felt  that  he  would  scorn  all  vulgar  dis- 


CINE  AS  AND  HELENA. 


\ 
»59 


play,  and  would  address  himself  to  the  mind  alone,  not  lo  the 
senses.  I  find  here  that  which  is  more  than  I  had  imagined  ; 
the  real  filling  up  of  my  faint  outline;  the  solid  substance  of  that 
which  with  me  was  a  faint  shadow.      < 

"  I  do  not  know  what  to  think  of  his  miracles ;  but  if  they 
are  true,  they  are  of  the  kind  which  they  should  be.  They 
never  appeal  to  the  vulgar  approbation;  they  are  never  per- 
formed for  effect.  But  they  are  wrought  for  the  good  of  man — 
to  heal  the  sick,  or  to  comfort  the  sorrowful.  This  was  the  true 
character  of  Socrates,  and  the  real  nature  of  his  life — to  go 
among  all  classes,  and  to  seek  the  good  of  the  public.  He 
neglected  his  own  affairs,  and  gave  himself  up  wholly  to  the 
good  of  his  fellow-men.  Yet  I  must  say  that  I  find  something 
more  pathetic  in  this  Jewish  teacher  than  in  our  Greek  one — 
more  tender,  more  sympathetic,  more  divine.  Above  all,  there 
is  something  more  positive.  He  speaks,  as  the  Book  itself 
says,  like  one  who  has  authority.  He  proclaims  what  he  knows 
to  be  the  truth.  Socrates  hints  and  argues,  and  rarely  makes  a 
direct  statement.  He  adopts  a  negative  style ;  but  the  Jewish 
teacher  is  never  anything  else  than  positive. 

"  For  this  reason,  all  that  he  says  comes  directly  to  the  heart 
and  to  the  mind.  A  few  words  express  that  which  Socrates 
uses  many  words  even  to  hint  at.  He  gives  also  a  nobler  view 
of  God.  He  tells  us  directly  that  the  Supreme  One  is  our 
Father,  and  feels  positive  love  for  his  creatures.  There  is  some- 
thing that  Socrates  never  says.  I  take  that,  my  dearest;  I  em- 
brace that ;  I  will  cherish  it  in  my  secret  soul  as  long  as  I  live ; 
and  if  I  have  learned  nothing  else  from  your  book,  I  have  at 
least  found  this  out,  and  I  rejoice  in  the  great  doctrine. 

**  I  cannot  tell  you  all  the  thoughts  that  have  filled  my  mind 
since  I  read  that  book.  All  my  life  seemed  to  change.  All 
that  I  had  ever  read  seemed  to  recur  to  me ;  and  the  noblest 
words  of  my  favourite  poets  seemed  to  come  up  and  compare 
themselves  with  these  words,  and  shrink  back,  unable  to  bear 


lis 


i6o 


^   ir 


CINEAS  AND  HELENA. 


\   '■' 


■^  i      I 


the  comparison.  Most  of  all,  I  thought  of  the  words  of  the  Pro- 
metheus. How  often  have  I  cited  that  character  as  the  grandest 
conception  of  genius ;  but  I  never  thought  that  I  would  evel- 
read  the  life  of  a  real  man  which  carried  in  itself  all  that  I  most 
admire  in  the  Prometheus,  and  more  also. 

"  When  I  read  of  that  death  of  agony,  I  recalled  many  passages 
from  that  poem  which  seemed  to  afford  a  parallel.  You  know 
them  well,  for  how  often  we  have  read  and  sung  them  together. 
How  I  felt  that  I  could  say  to  this  sufferer,  in  the  sublime  words 
of  that  chorus, — 

"  '  I  thrill  to  behold 

Thee,  victim  doomed— 

•  •  • 

And  all  because  thou 

Didst  overflow,  for  mankind  below, 

With  a  free-souled,  generous  love !' 

"  Yes ;  there  was  a  repetition  of  all  that  .^schylus  has  pre- 
sented to  us — a  Being  who  loves  men,  who  does  good  to  them, 
who  suffers  for  them,  who  endures  the  mysterious  anger  of  the 
Supreme.  But  the  Supreme  Being  of  ^Eschylus  is  a  tyrant, 
while  here  the  suffering  One  always  speaks  of  his  love. 

"  When  I  see  him  crushed  in  the  garden,  I  recall  the  mourn- 
ing cry  of  Prometheus  : — 

"  '  Because  f  gave 
Honours  to  mortals,  I  have  yoked  my  soul 
To  this  compelling  fate.' 

"But  I  see  in  this  Jewish  teacher  a  spirit  infinitely  more 
divine;  so  much  so  that  comparison  becomes  impossible;  and 
when  the  words  of  Prometheus  are  suggested,  further  thought 
shows  that  the  resemblance  is  only  partial.  Yet  there  is  much 
which  one  may  recall.  When  the  victim  is  nailed  to  the  cross, 
his  enemies  rail  on  him  and  sneer  at  him,  and  bring  to  mind 
the  words  of  Kratos  to  Prometheus  : — 

"  '  Having  spoiled  the  gods 
Of  honours,  crown  withal  thy  mortal  men 
Who  live  a  whole  day  out.    Why,  how  could  they 
Draw  off  from  thee  one  single  of  thy  griefs? ' 


CINEAS  AND  HELENA. 


\ 

t6l 


"  This  is  the  same  scorn  which  I  see  repeated  in  the  words, 
'  He  saved  others,  himself  he  cannot  save.' 

"  And  so,  too,  when  I  see  this  innocent  victim,  this  holy  and 
divine  being,  in  his  agony,  I  utter  the  words  of  those  who 
gazed  on  Prometheus  : — 

"  '  I  behold  thee,  Prometheus— yet  now^yet  now ;  • 

A  terrible  cloud,  whose  rain  is  tears,  , 

Sweeps  over  mine  eyes  that  witneu  how 

Thy  body  appears 
Hung  a  waste  on  the  rock  in  infrangible  chains.' 

"  And  as  they  say  again  : — 

" '  I  moan  thy  fate,  I  moan  for  thee,  .  • 

Prometheus  I    From  my  restless  eyes, 
/  Drop  by  drop,  intermittently 

A  trickling  stream  of  tears  supplies 
My  cheeks  all  wet  from  fountains  free.' 

"  Yes,  both  suffer  from  love  to  man  : — 

" '  Such  is  thy  woe  for  thy  deep  love  to  man.' 

"  But  I  see  the  great  difference  between  the  teachings  of  the 
two  books,  the  Grecian  poem  and  the  Jewish  story.  One 
makes  the  supreme  a  cruel  tyrant,  the  other  a  tender  and  lov- 
ing father  ;  the  former  creates  fear,  the  latter  awakens  love. 

"  Most  of  all,  my  sister,  have  I  felt  the  deep  tragic  nature  of 
those  events  which  accompanied  the  death  of  this  mysterious 
man.  The  darkening  of  the  heavens,  the  earthquake,  and  all 
the  other  events,  which  showed  that  nature  itself  sympathized. 
So,  in  Prometheus,  nature  sympathizes,  and  all  the  races  of 
mankind  join  in  one  universal  lamentation  : — 

" '  All  the  land  is  moaning 
With  a  murmured  plaint  to-day, 

All  the  mortal  nations 

Having  habitations 
Near  the  holy  Asia. 

Now  are  groaning  in  the  groaning 

Of  thy  deep-voiced  grief. 
Mourn  the  virp'.is  habitant 

Of  the  Colchean  land. 
Who  with  white,  calm  bosoms  stand 

In  the  battle's  roar,— 

(188)  "  _.       . 


1 


hi 

Ui.. 


M' 


:iis 


I 


*  ii 


>  I 


' 


''  1 1 


\ 


10  a  CINE  AS  AND  HELENA. 

Mourn  the  Scythian  tribes  that  haiint 
The  verge  of  earth,  Mxotis'  shore — 
And  Arabia's  battle  crown, 
And  dwellers  in  the  lofty  town, 
Mount  Caucasus  sublimely  nears— 
At  iron  squadron,  thundering  down 
With  the  sharp-prowed  spears.' 

'*  You  know  how  the  *  master '  was  always  accustomed  to  say 
that  the  most  divine  thing  in  the  attitude  of  Socrates  was  when 
he  forgave  his  enemies.  This,  too,  I  always  considered  in  the 
same  way.  I  took  to  myself  the  majestic,  the  godlike  nature 
of  the  man,  who  could  rise  to  such  transcendent  superiority  to 
human  weakness,  as  to  turn  to  those  who  even  then  were  burn- 
ing to  take  vengeance  on  them,  and  tell  them  to  their  faces  that 
he  forgave  them.  This  you  know  well,  for  you,  too,  have  taken 
part  in  the  same  instructions,  and  have  learned  to  look  on  this 
with  the  eyes  of  the  *  master.'  You  may  imagine,  then,  how 
my  whole  being  thrilled  as  I  came  to  that  part  of  the  sufferings 
of  this  wonderful  man,  where  he  prays  to  God  for  forgiveness 
to  his  enemies.  That  is  the  crowning  glory  of  his  sublime  life. 
Under  such  circumstances  of  physical  anguish,  it  would  not 
have  been  surprising  if  something  like  vindictiveness  had 
appeared,  and  if  a  prayer  had  been  wrung  out  from  him  in  that 
great  agony  which  invoked  vengeance  on  his  cruel  enemies. 
Yet  there  was  an  utter  absence  of  this  ;  there  was  more — a  per- 
petual presence  of  that  same  love  for  man  which  had  marked 
his  life ;  and  he  excused  them  by  saying  that  they  knew  not 
what  they  were  doing." 

Such  was  the  confession  of  Cineas,  frankly  made  to  his 
sister,  with  deep  and  strong  emotion,  and  an  earnestness  which 
showed  that  he  had  been  moved  to  the  inmost  depths  of  his 
being  by  the  study  of  .the  book  which  she  had  lent  him.  She 
said  not  a  word  \  nor  did  she  venture  upon  any  interruption  of 
any  kind.  She  hoped  that  he  would  end  it  all  by  declaring 
that  he  had  found  all  that  he  had  ever  sought.  She  herself 
was  moved  by  the  evident  depth  of  his  feeling,  and  hoped  that 


CINEAS  AND  HELENA. 


163 


they  might  be  cordially  joined  in  a  joyous  reception  of  this 
new  doctrine.    And  so,  as  he  at  length  paused,  she  said, —    • 

"  And  what  do  you  think  this  wondrous  One  may  be  1  Do 
you  think  that  he  can  be  all  that  the  Christians  say  he  is  1" 

Cineas  was  silent  for  some  time. 

"  I  know  all  that  the  Christians  believe,  and  I  can  say  this, 
that  I  am  not  yet  a  Christian.  I  may  never  be  one.  I  will 
tell  you,  my  sister,  what  my  present  opinion  is,  as  far  as  I  have 
formed  an  opinion. 

"  I  think  that  this  man  is  another  Socrates,  formed  under 
different  circumstances,  and  perhaps  more  favourable  ones. 
From  many  conversations  which  I  have  had  with  Isaac,  I  have 
learned  much  about  the  Jews.  They  were  a  nation  among 
whom  religious  thoughts  of  a  most  exalted  nature  were  common 
to  all.  They  were  profoundly  earnest  and  serious,  with  feelings 
of  awful  reverence  toward  the  Most  High,  whom  they  believed 
to  be  always  present  among  them. 

"  Now,  we  Athenians  have  always  been  lively,  witty,  and  sar- 
castic, with  a  strong  love  for  argument  and  discussion.  Our 
great  teacher  bore  our  character.  He  was  fond  of  discussion  ; 
he  was  lively,  fond  of  banter,  quick  at  retort,  and  had  that  in- 
direct way  of  making  assertions,  which  is  a  characteristic  of  the 
people  to  which  he  belonged.  He  was  invincible  in  discussion, 
his  wit  was  unequalled,  his  irony  was  overpowering.  He  was 
a  great  teacher,  but  one  of  the  thorough  Athenian  style. 

"  But  this  Jewish  teacher  came  fresh  from  a  solemn,  silent 
people,  full  of  veneration,  possessed  of  sublime  ideas  of  God, 
and  convinced  of  his  love  for  them.  He  was  a  true  child  of 
such  a  people.  He  was  solemn,  impressive,  earnest,  like  them- 
selves. He  spoke  positively  as  they  did.  He  never  hinted  at 
truth,  but  proclaimed  it  aloud.  In  short,  he  was  a  Jewish 
Socrates,  if  such  a  term  be  not  contradictory  ;  or  he  was  what 
Socrates  might  have  been  had  he  been  born  a  Jew. 

"  There  are  many  things  which  I  cannot  understand,  espe- 


mm 


i"t; 


i  » 


\ 


164 


CINEAS  AND  HELENA. 


daily  his  miracles,  and  the  character  of  them.  Socrates  plainly 
stated  that  he  was  sent  by  God,  as  did  the  Jewish  teacher ;  but 
he  never  pretended  to  perform  miracles.  The  only  sign  of 
supernatural  power  which  he  presented  was  his  *  attendant 
spirit' — his  dsemon.  But,  perhaps,  among  the  sceptical 
Athenians  it  was  better  not  to  have  the  power  of  performing 
miracles.  It  might  have  put  an  end  to  his  career  at  an  early 
period. 

"  Such  are  my  present  impressions,  my  dearest ;  but  I  have 
many  difficulties  before  me.  These  feelings  of  mine  may 
change.  But  you  know  how  cautious  I  am,  what  a  true  Athe- 
nian I  am,  and  how  I  look  on  every  possible  side  before  I 
receive  any  new  proposition.  Believe  me,  however,  what  I 
have  read  in  that  book  will  not  soon  be  forgotten.  I  feel  even 
now  that  it  exerts  a  strange  influence  over  me." 

Such  was  the  effect  of  this  book  on  Cineas.  Helena  said  but 
little,  knowing  that  an  attempt  at  argument  would  only  confirm 
him  in  the  views  which  he  might  defend  \  but  rather  left  him  to 
himself. 


M    \ 


!! 


XIV. 


t  €oxxxt  of  |ttr0. 

jlHE  Court  of  Nero  presented  to  the  world  an  un- 
equalled spectacle  of  folly  and  vice.  The  emperor 
had  always  entertained  a  passionate  fondness  for 
everything  Greek,  whether  in  art,  or  literature,  or 
gymnastics.  In  his  self-conceit,  he  was  not  content  to  stand  in 
the  attitude  of  a  patron  towards  these  things,  but  sought  to  be 
a  competitor  in  all.  He  instituted  trials  of  skill  in  music, 
wrestling,  and  horsemanship — called  Neronia — which  were  to 
be  performed  every  five  years.  Not  satisfied  with  this,  he  deter- 
mined to  descend  into  the  arena,  and  win  some  of  those 
honours  which  the  strains  of  Pindar  once  made  so  glorious. 
He  aspired  to  the  fame  of  a  charioteer,  and  besides  this,  he 
loved  to  sing  his  own  verses  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
harp.  He  used  to  say  *'  that  in  ancient  times  this  had  been 
the  practice  of  heroes  and  of  kings."  He  celebrated  the  names 
of  illustrious  men  who  had  distinguished  themselves  in  this 
way,  and  said  that  Apollo  had  less  glory  from  his  gift  of  pro- 
phecy than  from  his  office  as  patron  of  the  muses.  In  his 
statues  the  god  was  thus  represented. 

Seneca  and  Burrhus  tried  to  prevent  the  emperor  of  the 
world  from  debasing  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the  people,  and  at 
first  restrained  him  partially.  A  wide  space  at  the  loot  of  the 
Vatican  was  enclosed  for  his  use,  and  there  he  practised  his 
beloved  arts,  at  first  in  comparative  seclusion.     But  his  love  of 


m 


(•.-  f..-^ 


i66 


THE  COURT  OF  NERO. 


1- 


%  '■ 


fame  made  him  dissatisfied  with  these  contracted  bounds ;  he 
invited  the  people  to  see  him,  and  their  applause,  given  with- 
out stint  or  measure,  served  to  lead  him  on  to  new  excesses. 

Thereupon  he  determined  to  make  his  own  follies  excusable 
by  associating  others  with  himself.  He  found  poor  descendants 
of  illustrious  families,  and  paid  them  for  their  co-operation.  He 
produced  these  on  the  public  stage.  His  success  made  him  go 
still  further,  and  by  heavy  bribes  he  induced  several  Roman 
knights  to  perform  in  the  arena. 

Then  he  established  a  kind  of  amusement  called  ^^ Juvenile 
Sports.^^  Men  of  high  rank  enrolled  themselves  in  this  asso- 
ciation, and  all  classes  soon  sought  membership.  Its  object  was 
to  promote  the  theatrical  art.  Women  of  rank  followed  the 
prevailing  fashion.  One  woman,  of  eighty  years  of  age,  named 
.-Elia  Catella,  forgot  herself  so  far  as  to  dance  on  the  stage. 
Luxury  and  corruption  reigned  supreme  here,  and  the  sports 
served  to  pamper  the  worst  inclinations. 

All  these  things  seemed  to  impel  onward  Nero  to  fresh  ex- 
travagances. The  corruption  of  the  time  encouraged  him  to 
throw  off  all  restraint.  At  length  he  went  upon  the  public 
stage,  in  the  sight  of  the  people,  as  a  performer.  He  entered 
the  scene  with  a  harp  in  his  hand,  and  affected  the  arts  of  pro- 
fessional musicians.  A  circle  of  his  friends  was  near,  tribunes 
and  centurions  were  at  hand,  and  a  praetorian  cohort  was  on 
guard  to  protect  him.     All  applauded  the  master  of  the  world. 

In  connection  with  this,  Nero  instituted  a  company  of  Roman 
knights  under  the  name  of  The  Augustan  Society,  all  of  whom 
were  young  men  of  profligate  tendencies.  They  seconded  Nero 
in  his  wildest  extravagances,  whether  of  musical  performances 
or  horse-racing.  The  leaders  of  the  society  had  salaries  of 
forty  thousand  sesterces  each.  They  became  the  most  eager 
supporters  of  their  patron,  praised  all  his  acts,  and  offered  to 
him  the  most  extravagant  compliments  and  the  grossest  of  flat- 
teries ;  for  each  one  hoped,  by  this,  for  personal  advancement. 


;'    ili'' 


I  1  'I    '  ■  ■:! 
I  i   :  :  f 


THE  COURT  OF  NERO. 


I 


One  of  Nero's  highest  desires  was  to  excel  in  poetry.  All 
who  loved  the  art  were  invited  to  join  a  society  for  this  purpose. 
The  members  of  this  society  met  on  familiar  terms  of  intimacy, 
and  brought  their  productions  to  these  meetings.  Sometimes 
they  brought  fragments  of  poetical  composition,  and  then 
endeavoured  to  unite  them  all  into  a  regular  poem,  always, 
however,  giving  chief  prominence  to  the  productions  of  the 
emperor. 

Thus  Nero,  amid  his  cruelties,  wasted  his  time  in  frivolities 
as  well  as  vices,  and  the  world  followed  the  example  which  the 
ruler  set  them,  only  too  readily. 

All  this  time  Nero  had  a  restraint  upon  him  in  the  persons 
of  Burrhus  and  Seneca ;  but  the  time  now  came  when  these 
restraints  were  removed. 

Burrhus  died  suddenly  from  a  disease  in  his  throat.  Men 
whispered  to  each  other  that  poison  had  been  administered  by 
some  one  of  Nero's  emissaries,  and  that  when  the  emperor 
visited  his  dying  friend,  the  latter  turned  his  face  away  from 
him. 

After  his  death  Tigellinus  rose.  The  situation  was  given  to 
him,  and  to  another  named  Rufus,  but  Tigellinus  was  the  real 
actor.  This  man  had  risen  through  a  long  career  of  unscrupu- 
lous vice  to  be  the  chief  favourite  of  the  emperor.  Burrhus 
always  hated  him,  and  kept  him  under  some  control,  but  now 
there  remained  no  obstacle  between  him  and  his  desires.  The 
same  arts  which  had  made  him  influential  with  Nero  for  so  long 
a  time,  perpetuated  that  influence  and  increased  his  ascendancy 
every  day. 

Seneca  felt  the  effects  of  the  death  of  his  friend.  There  was 
no  longer  any  possibility  of  making  headway  against  the  cor- 
ruptions of  the  Court,  and  he  soon  learned  the  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  his  position.  Secret  enemies  began  to  under- 
mine him.  His  vast  wealth,  and  the  means  which  he  used  to 
increase  that  wealth,  had  made  his  name  disliked  even  among 


*r 


!i 


It 


IF 


1 63 


THE  COURT  OF  NERO. 


%\ 


the  virtuous,  while  his  general  character  made  him  hatetul  to 
the  vicious.  The  creatures  of  T'gellinus,  and  the  more  aban- 
doned courtiers,  never  ceased  to  fill  the  mind  of  Nero  with  their 
slanders,  until  at  length  Seneca  found  it  impossible  to  live  at  the 
Court  in  comfort  or  safety. 

He  besought  Nero  to  allow  him  to  go  into  retirement, 
enumerated  the  many  favours  which  he  had  received,  praised 
the  generosity  of  the  emperor,  and  pleaded  his  age  and  infirmi- 
ties as  an  excuse  for  his  wishes. 

Nero  answered  him  in  words  which  were  of  the  most  flutter- 
ing and  complimentary  character.  He  assured  Seneca  that 
he  owed  to  him  all  that  he  knew,  and  declared  that  he  had 
never  given  back  anything  like  an  equivalent  return  for  the  bene- 
fits which  he  had  received.  He  refused  to  let  him  go,  and  said 
that  he  still  needed  his  wise  counsel. 

To  this  Seneca  had  to  yield,  and  though  doubting  the  sin- 
cerity of  Nero,  he  was  forced  to  continue  in  connection  with 
him.  But  in  order  to  disarm  envy  and  suspicion,  he  lived  in  a 
most  retired  manner,  avoided  display,  and  appeared  abroad  but 
seldom.  He  preserved  his  life  for  a  time,  but  his  influence  was 
gone,  and  Nero  now,  having  lost  his  last  restraint,  set  no  bounds 
to  his  cruelty.  All  who  excited  his  suspicions  were  removed 
by  death.  Among  the  most  eminent  of  his  victims  was  the 
noble  Plautus,  whose  death  filled  the  world  with  terror.  Yet  so 
slavish  was  the  public  mind,  that  the  Roman  senate,  when  in- 
formed of  this  murder,  decreed  public  vows  and  supplications 
to  the  gods.  This  action  of  the  senate  taught  Nero  that  no 
possible  obstacle  lay  before  him  in  the  accomplishment  of  any 
of  his  desires. 

He  now  determined  to  carry  out  an  intention  which  he  had 
cherished  for  some  time,  and  that  was,  to  get  rid  of  his  wife 
Octavia.  The  pure  life  of  Octavia  was  a  perpetual  reproach  to 
him,  and  her  own  character  made  her  hateful  to  a  man  like 
him.   Above  all,  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  Poppaea,  and 


'&■     ! 


THE  COURT  OF  NERO. 


169 


had  determined  to  make  her  his  wife.  False  witnesses  were 
easily  found  who  swore  foul  crimes  against  Octavia.  Her  ser- 
vants were  seized  and  put  to  the  torture,  and,  though  many 
were  constant,  yet  some,  overcome  by  agony,  confessed  what- 
ever was  asked  them.  Octavia  was  condemned  and  repudiated, 
and  dismissed  from  the  palace,  and  afterwards  banished. 

But  Octa/ia  was  loved  and  pitied  by  the  people;  murmurs 
arose,  and  finally  the  clamour  grew  so  great  that  Nero  had  to 
recall  her  from  banishment.  But  Poppaea  had  vowed  her  death, 
and  never  ceased  to  exert  all  her  arts  upon  Nero  for  this  pur- 
pose. She  did  not  find  the  task  a  difficult  one.  New  plots 
were  formed  against  the  unhappy  lady,  and  finally  an  infamous 
wretch  was  found  by  whom  fresh  crimes  were  laid  to  her  charge, 
and  she  was  once  more  banished.  There  in  a  few  days  she 
received  orders  to  put  herself  to  death.  She  was  young  and 
timid,  she  had  known  much  sorrow,  and  at  this  last  calamity 
her  nature  faltered  in  the  presence  of  death.  But  her  suppli- 
cations were  of  no  avail.  She  was  seized,  her  veins  were  opened, 
and  since  the  blood  did  not  flow  fast  enough  in  the  chill  of  her 
fear,  she  was  taken  to  a  vapour  bath  and  there  suffocated. 

All  Rome  was  filled  with  horror,  but,  nevertheless,  the  senate 
ordered  thanks  to  be  returned  to  the  gods,  even  for  this,  as 
they  had  done  in  other  cases. 

But  the  life  of  the  Court  knew  no  change.  Still  the  gaiety 
and  the  debauchery  went  on,  and  still  Nero  cherished  his  tastes 
for  literature,  philosophy,  and  art.  Men  of  genius  still  fre- 
quented the  place  ;  indeed,  whatever  they  felt  they  did  not  dare 
to  retire,  for  fear  of  alarming  the  jealous  tyrant. 

Lucan  and  Seneca,  great  names  in  that  age,  and  great  names 
yet,  still  resorted  to  the  palace.  Among  those  who  were  most 
agreeable  to  Nero,  none  surpassed  the  gay  and  light-hearted 
Petronius.  He  was  a  man  of  singular  character,  who  illustrated 
some  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  age.  He  slept  through  the  day, 
and  caroused  through  the  night.     In  his  manner  at  Court  he 


^'i]i 


|.l 


Hil 


um 


'i* 


r\ 


u 


'! 


§70 


THE  COURT  OF  NERO. 


h 


appeared  to  be  the  most  indolent  of  men.  He  sought  advance- 
ment by  cultivating  all  known  pleasures.  He  spent  money 
lavishly,  yet  never  went  beyond  his  fortune,  and  showed  the 
same  caution  even  in  his  pleasures,  for  he  took  care  to  keep 
himself  ^m  p  mes.  He  was  an  epicure,  but  not  a  glutton  j 
and  plaj  i  ilie  ].?rt  of  a  refined  and  elegant  voluptuary.  De- 
lightful in  con  /cj  ,  .:'.on,  with  gay  and  ready  wit,  skilled  in  music 
and  in  art,  and  a  v.i  .'  of  acknowledged  eminence,  he  com- 
bined in  his  person  those  intellectual  and  moral  qualities  which 
could  best  secure  the  favour  of  a  man  like  Nero.  He  became 
the  arbiter  of  taste,  and  gained  a  great  ascendency  over  the 
emperor, — so  much  so,  indeed,  that  Tigellinus  became  more 
jealous  of  him  than  any  other  man,  and  sought  his  ruin  above 
all  things.  Petronius  ,knew  his  malignity,  but  cared  nothing. 
He  had  a  supreme  indifference  to  fortune,  and  cared  nothing 
whether  the  following  day  should  bring  glory  or  ruin.  On 
account  of  this  magnificent  indifference,  he  was  perhaps  the 
only  man  in  all  that  Court  who  was  really  as  light-hearted  as  he 
seemed. 

Meanwhile,  the  position  of  Cineas  and  Labeo  was  a  peculiar 
one.  Both  looked  upon  the  crimes  of  Nero  with  abhorrence. 
By  Cineas  the  death  of  Burrhus  had  been  felt  as  a  severe 
calamity,  and  the  memory  of  old  friendship  made  the  bereave- 
ment a  sad  one.  But  his  grief  for  Burrhus  was  not  equal  to  his 
sorrow  for  the  wretched  Octavia.  It  sickened  his  soul  to  think 
that  these  things  could  be  done,  and  that  a  servile  senate  could 
applaud. 

Yet  he  still  visited  the  Court,  and  for  various  reasons  Nero 
received  him  with  undiminished  favour.  If  he  had  absented 
himself  he  would  have  inevitably  aroused  the  suspicions  of  the 
tyrant,  and  those  suspicions  would  have  been  heightened  by 
the  arts  of  those  who  were  jealous  of  him.  The  only  way  to 
quit  the  Court  was  to  go  back  to  Athens.  But  this  he  had  no 
wish  to  do.     He  had  many  reasons  for  remaining  in  Rome. 


*       in 


THE  COURT  OF  NERO. 


171 


It  was  not  moral  cowardice  on  his  part  that  led  him  to  con- 
tinue his  attendance  in  Court.  When  the  proper  occasion 
might  demand,  Cineas  could  show  as  much  courage  as  any 
one.  But  if  he  now  showed  in  any  way  any  disapprobation  of 
Nero's  proceedings,  he  could  effect  nothing.  He  would  simply 
involve  himself  in  ruin,  and  naturally  enough  he  did  not  wish 
to  court  danger.  In  the  first  place,  he  considered  himself.  He 
had  a  great  purpose  in  life,  and  he  wished  calmly  to  .  tv  that 
out.  He  did  not  wish  to  rush  headlong  into  imprison  m;  :,  or 
banishment,  or  death.  He  could  endure  all  the  'f  l.  iaw 
duty  compelling  him,  but  his  duty  here  seemed  be  0  carry 
out  his  search  after  truth.  He  wished  to  be  a  pj  uosopher. 
But  if  he  himself  only  had  been  concerned  ^  "'ould  un- 
doubtedly, in  his  first  fierce  indignation,  have  icll  the  Court 
and  taken  the  consequences.  He  loathed  the  man  who  sat  on 
the  throne  of  the  world,  and  it  was  only  by  an  effort  that  he  could 
preserve  his  old  demeanour  when  in  his  presence.  He  loathed 
the  sycophants  who  filled  the  Court,  and  were  ready  to  commit 
any  crime  so  as  to  secure  the  favour  of  the  emperor.  But  he 
had  to  consider  others  beside  himself.  His  sister  and  Labeo 
and  Marcus  all  were  with  him,  and  if  he  fell  into  disgrace,  they 
would  share  it.  The  hopes  and  the  prospects  of  Labeo,  now 
so  fair,  would  receive  a  fatal  shock,  and  the  labour  of  years 
would  be  brought  to  naught.  Yet  this  was  not  all.  A  decline 
in  favour,  a  palpable  disgrace,  would  only  be  the  signal  for 
ruin  to  them  all.  Tigellinus  stood  ready  to  assail  them  when- 
ever the  chance  offered  itself.  With  his  crowds  of  hirelings  he 
could  malie  any  charge  which  he  pleased  against  them,  and 
confirm  it  by  false  witnesses.  To  fall  into  disfavour  with  Nero, 
would  be  to  involve  himself  and  all  his  friends  in  one  general 
calamity. 

With  all  these  considerations  to  influence  him,  Cineas  was 
compelled  as  long  as  he  remained  in  Rome  to  frequent  the 
Court  as  before.     Yet  he  did  it  with  a  burdened  mind.     The 


?M 


*il 


Hill 


I 


m 

"in 
'iff 

I   \ 


fl 


ft 't 


lit 


I 


17a 


THE  COURT  OF  NERO. 


i'! 


crime  Ihat  was  enthroned  there  was  too  open  and  too  grosai 
He  loathed  the  society  into  which  he  found  himself  forced  to  go. 

Labeo,  on  the  other  hand,  knew  nothing  of  the  distress  of 
mind  which  actuated  Cineas.  His  feelings  about  the  crimes  of 
Nero  were  those  of  utter  abhorrence.  But  he  considered  that 
it  was  not  his  business  to  say  a  word.  His  military  training 
had  brought  him  all  his  life  in  contact  with  men  who  committed 
the  most  villanous  crimes  before  his  very  eyes.  These  things 
which  Nero  had  done  did  not  shock  him  so  much  as  Cineas. 
Familiarity  had  hardened  him. 

Hie  great  object  in  Hfe  was  advancement.  He  was  ambi- 
tious; but  it  was  a  noble  ambition,  mingled  with  love  for 
his  son,  and  fond  thoughts  of  future  honours  for  him.  He 
laboured,  and  the  motive  of  that  labour  was  tha*  he  might 
leave  a  great  name  and  a  great  estate  to  Marcus.  In  the  effort 
to  acquire  this  he  would  never  descend  to  the  meannesses  which 
were  so  common  in  his  day.  His  soul  was  incapable  of  any- 
thing dishonourable.  He  was  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  being 
present  at  Court,  and  hoped  that  it  might  lead  to  some  high 
and  dignified  office. 

After  all,  the  position  of  these  two  was  not  so  painful  as 
might  be  supposed.  This  arose  from  the  peculiar  character  of 
Nero.  In  all  his  debaucheries  and  excesses  he  never  once 
asked  them  to  take  a  part.  In  fact,  he  did  not  even  expect  it. 
He  looked  upon  both  in  a  peculiar  light. 

With  Cineas  he  never  conversed,  except  on  such  subjects  as 
art,  literature,  and  philosophy.  The  splendid  attainments  of 
the  Athenian  in  all  these  things  charmed  him.  He  would  not 
consider  him  in  any  other  light.  He  called  him  his  poet,  or 
his  philosopher.  He  separated  the  world  of  his  amusements 
altogether  from  the  world  of  intellectual  pursuits ;  and  had  no 
more  idea  of  asking  Cineas  to  share  his  pleasures  than  of 
asking  Seneca.  Nero  loved  to  affect  the  philosophical  tone,  to 
quote  Plato,  to  discuss  such  subjects  as  the  immortality  of  the 


;!i: 


THE  COURT  OF  NERO. 


»73 


soul,  the  summum  bonum,  and  other  great  questions  which  were 
common  among  philosophers.  He  also  loved  to  talk  of  the 
science  of  metres,  to  unfold  his  own  theories  on  the  subject, 
and  suggest  new  improvements  in  the  structure  of  verse. 
Nero  believed  most  implicitly  in  himself.  He  thought  that  he 
was  a  kind  of  universal  patron  of  letters,  and  it  gave  him  more 
pleasure  to  consider  himself  in  this  light,  than  to  regard  him- 
self as  the  master  of  the  world.  In  these  discussions  on  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  or  on  the  Greek  games,  or  on  the 
power  of  varying  metres,  he  never  made  the  remotest  allusion, 
by  any  chance,  to  the  events  of  the  time.  Agrippina  and 
Octavia  were  forgotten.  He  lived  in  the  past.  The  poets,  the 
heroes,  or  the  gods  of  that  past,  formed  the  only  subjects  which 
he  noticed.  In  him  the  dilettante  spirit  reached  the  most  extra- 
ordinary development  which  it  has  ever  gained. 

As  he  regarded  Cineas,  so  did  he  look  on  I.abeo.  But 
Labeo  stood  before  him  in  a  very  different  character.  The 
former  was  his  philosopher  or  poet.  The  latter  was  his  ideal 
of  the  Roman.  His  taste  was  gratified  by  the  splendid  physical 
development  of  Labeo,  and  none  the  less,  strange  though  it 
appear,  by  his  incorruptible  integrity,  his  highsouled  virtue, 
and  his  lofty  moral  instincts.  Nero  called  him  sometimes 
"  Hercules,"  but  afterwards  preferred  to  name  him  "  Cato." 
The  virtue  of  Labeo  gratified  him  in  precisely  the  same  way  in 
which  a  well-executed  statue  did.  In  both  cases  it  was  simply 
a  matter  of  taste.  He  had  a  strong  perception  of  the  fitness 
of  things.  It  would  have  shocked  him  if  Labeo  had  in  any  one 
instance  shown  a  tendency  toward  ordinary  folly  or  frailty.  It 
would  have  marred  his  ideal.  It  would  have  been  such  exces- 
sive bad  taste  in  Labeo,  that  he  could  never  have  forgiven  it 
nor  forgotten  it.  And  so,  to  this  strange  being,  the  very  ex- 
cesses which  he  urged  upon  others,  and  practised  himself, 
would  have  appeared  an  unpardonable  offence  if  they  had  been 
practised  either  by  Cineas  or  Labeo.     To  some  it  would  have 


ill  i 


m 


.;:  EM' 


¥ 


■'■'■•  .! 


It'v 


I! 


li    f 


i  1 


w 


\\ 


174 


77/^  COURT  OF  NERO. 


been  death  to  refrain ;  to  these  it  would  have  been  death  to 
indulge. 

Such  was  Nero. 

Now,  if  Cineas  had  been  truly  wise,  he  would  have  turned 
from  this  Court  and  its  associations,  to  one  who  could  have  told 
him  far  more  than  ever  he  had  learned,  either  from  "  The 
Master,"  or  from  Isaac,  oj  any  other  with  whom  he  had  ever 
been  brought  into  connection. 

Paul  had  been  presented  to  his  mind  as  a  man  of  very  re- 
markable character,  and  Cineas  had  frequently  felt  desirous  of 
an  interview  with  him,  yet  he  had  never  yet  sought  one. 

There  were  various  reasons  for  this,  among  which  the  strong- 
est was  perhaps  his  Grecian  pride.  He  did  not  see  in  its  full 
grandeur  the  character  of  the  great  apcstle.  He  looked  upon 
him  as  a  brave  man,  and  perhaps,  in  some  things,  a  great  man  \ 
but  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  depreciated  him  as  a  Jew.  He  did 
not  wish  to  learn  anything  from  such  a  man.  If  he  had  been 
an  associate  with  Seneca,  or  if  he  had  seen  him  moving  among 
the  great  ones  of  Rome,  he  might  perhaps  have  sought  an  inter- 
view.    As  it  was,  he  never  made  an  effort. 

Yet  Cineas  had  leanings  towards  this  new  religion,  of  which 
he  had  already  seen  such  beautiful  and  touching  manifestations. 
He  desired  to  learn  even  more  of  it.  He  thought  that  he  had 
already  learned  all  that  the  writings  of  the  Christians  could 
teach  him,  but  still  felt  some  desire  to  see  more  of  the  Christians 
themselves. 


XV. 


Cfee  Cfinttinon. 

|FTER  they  had  been  in  Rome  a  few  weeks,  Julius 
came  to  see  Cineas.  In  the  course  of  conversation 
he  asked  the  latter  if  he  felt  willing  to  go  to  one  of 
the  meetings  of  the  Christians. 

"  They  hold  their  regular  meetings,"  said  he,  "  on  the  first 
day  of  their  week.  They  follow  the  Jewish  fashion  of  dividing 
time  into  portions  of  seven  days  each,  and  they  take  one  day 
out  of  the  seven  for  rest  from  worldly  cares,  just  as  the  Jews  do 
with  their  Sabbath.  They  do  no  work  or  business  of  any  kind 
on  that  day,  but  consider  it  sacred.  They  meet  on  the  morning 
of  the  first  day  of  their  week  for  religious  services,  and  they 
have  chosen  that  day  because  they  believe  that  on  that  day 
their  Divinity,  Christ,  rose  frons  the  dead  after  he  was  crucified." 

"  Have  you  been  to  any  of  these  meetings?"  asked  Cineas. 

"  Yes ;  to  several.  The  Christians  make  this  their  chief 
meeting.  They  have  a  fashion  of  eating  bread  and  drinking 
wine  tog^;ether,  because  their  Master  instituted  this,  and  directed 
them  always  to  do  it  in  remembrance  of  him.  They  attach  to 
it  a  certain  solemn  and  mystic  signification,  and  think  that 
their  meeting  on  that  day  is  holier  than  any  other.  But  tliey 
also  have  meetings  at  night,  and  this  night  is  one  which  they 
have  appointed  for  this  purpose." 

Cineas  was  glad  of  the  opportunity,  and  said  as  much.  He 
wished  to  see  these  Christians  by  themselves,  so  as  to  learn 


n 
H 


I 


■'1 1 


i 


.  'It 


I 


If 


i 


176 


THE  CENTURION. 


•  i 


|: 


fll 


f'l"  " 


how  they  worshipped  God.  He  had  learned  enough  of  their 
doctrines  to  respect  them,  if  he  did  not  believe  them.  He 
knew  that  they  contained  some  of  the  most  sublime  truths  that 
he  had  ever  become  acquainted  with,  such  as  the  spirituality  of 
God,  his  almighty  power,  his  infinite  wisdom,  and  many  others, 
which  he  used  to  think  belonged  only  to  philosophy.  But  with 
these  he  knew  that  they  had  another,  greater  far  than  any 
which  philosophy  had  taught ;  and  that  was  the  sublime  doc- 
trine of  the  personality  of  this  Infinite  One — his  interest  in  the 
affairs  of  man ;  his  care  for  his  creatures.  The  Christians  be- 
lieved that  he  took  a  direct  personal  interest  in  human  concerns; 
that  he  looked  on  man  with  the  feelings  of  a  father;  that  he 
watched  over  the  life  of  every  one  of  his  creatures ; — in  one 
word,  that  he  loved  them. 

God  loves.  Sublime  doctrine  1  This  at  least  Cineas  had 
learned  from  the  manuscript  which  he  had  read.  In  spite  of 
all  his  attempts  to  make  Socrates  a  parallel  with  Jesus,  he  felt 
that  there  was  a  mysterious  difference  between  them.  He  felt 
that  between  the  uncertain  utterances  of  the  one,  surrounded 
as  they  were  with  doubts  and  limitations  and  hesitancies,  and 
the  direct  teachings  of  the  other,  with  all  their  strange  power, 
and  might,  and  majesty,  there  was  a  wide  dissimilarity.  The 
one  hesitated,  the  other  declared  ;  the  former  doubted,  the 
latter  taught.  From  the  teachings  of  Jesus  he  received  this  one 
truth,  which  sank  deeply  into  his  mind;  a  truth  which  he  had 
often  struggled  after,  often  sought  to  deduce  from  the  writings 
of  Plato,  but  which  often  eluded  him,  and  was  always  hard  to 
determine  ; — this  was  the  very  truth  which  Jesus  taught  above 
all  things — the  doctrine  that  God  loves.  He  received  this  with 
a  strange  exultation  ;  he  felt  that  this  was  true.  It  was  some- 
thing that  satisfied  his  doubts,  removed  his  perplexities,  and 
dispelled  the  gloom  that  often  gathered  over  his  mind.  God 
can  love,  and  God  does  love.  This  was  what  he  learned  from 
the  Christian  writings. 


THE  CENTURION. 


177 


And  so  he  gladly  accepted  the  invitation  of  Julius  to  accom- 
pany him  to  one  of  the  Christian  meetings.  / 

It  was  late,  and,  as  there  was  no  moon,  it  was  very  dark. 
The  two  set  out  unattended,  but,  as  the  streets  of  Rome 
were  unsafe  after  dark,  they  both  went  armed.  Each  one 
carried  a  torch,  and,  thus  equipped,  they  set  out  for  the  place 
of  their  destination. 

Julius  led  the  way.  The  streets  were  narrow  and  winding. 
The  houses  rose  up  on  either  side  to  a  great  height,  sometimes 
having  as  many  as  twelve  or  fifteen  stories.  Julius  seemed  to 
be  perfectly  at  home  in  the  labyrinth  of  streets.  He  walked 
rapidly  on,  turned  corner  after  corner,  and  never  hesitated  for 
a  moment.  Cineas  soon  became  so  completely  bewildered, 
that  he  had  no  idea  of  where  he  was. 

Lights  gleamed  in  the  windows  that  were  open,  and  flickered 
through  those  that  were  shut.  Often  a  loud  cry  from  above 
made  them  start.  At  such  times  a  window  would  open,  and  a 
vessel  would  be  discharged  into  the  streets  below. 

"  If  my  father  were  here,"  said  Julius,  "  he  would  rail  at  this 
as  one  of  the  fashions  of  Rome,  and  swear  that  no  man's  life 
was  safe  after  dark  in  these  streets.  But  there — listen  to  that  I 
With  what  a  crack  that  struck  the  pavement !  " 

As  he  spoke  something  came  crashing  down  immediately  in 
front  of  them.  It  was  thrown  from  the  very  topmost  story  of 
a  house,  and  the  noise  that  it  made,  and  the  force  with  which 
it  fell,  made  Cineas  peculiarly  alive  to  the  dangers  of  the 
streets  after  dark.     He  was  glad  that  he  had  worn  his  helmet. 

So  they  went  on  through  the  dark  streets,  starting  back  as 
often  as  a  window  opened  above  them,  and  looking  around,  so 
as  to  guard  against  the  impending  calamity.  At  length  lights 
appeared  in  the  distance,  and  the  noise  of  men  and  the  tumult 
of  a  great  crowd. 

"  We  are  coming  to  the  Suburra,"  said  Julius. 

Along  this  they  went ;  amid  the  crowds  that  frequented  this 

(183)  12 


I   J 


.: 


i'mh 


H' 


178 


T//E  CENTURION. 


inf '1  I 


%  \  <  i 


ii'  1 


I  fii, 


I II 


place  most;  among  booths  lighted  with  lamps  and  torches;  and 
the  surging  tide  of  men,  and  multitudes  that  seemed  to  throng 
as  numerously  by  night  as  by  day.  The  innumerable  torches 
carried  in  the  hands  of  the  vast  multitude,  with  their  flaming 
ends  held  aloft,  swaying  and  tossing  in  the  air,  threw  a  wild 
fantastic  light  over  the  scene,  and  gave  a  new  sensation  to 
Cineas,  to  whom  the  wonders  of  the  Suburra  by  night  now  ap- 
peared for  the  first  time.  At  times  there  would  come  through 
the  crowd  a  litter  containing  some  noble,  preceded  by  a  long 
train  of  clients,  and  followed  by  others,  all  carrying  torches,  and 
forcing  their  way  rudely  through  the  crowd,  quite  careless,  if  in 
their  rapid  progress  they  pushed  dovm  some  of  the  people  and 
trampled  them  under  foot.  From  them  all  there  arose  a  wild 
hubbub  and  confusion  of  voices;  the  foUov/ers  of  the  nobles 
shouting  at  the  crowd,  and  the  crowd  shouting  back ;  the 
venders  of  different  commodities  at  the  booths  calling  out  their 
wares  and  inviting  passers-by  to  purchase,  and  drunken  men  at 
times  yelling  out  wild  songs.  In  the  distance  all  these  various 
noises  mingled  together  in  one  indistinguishable  and  deafening 
clamour,  while  nearer  at  hand  each  individual  noise  rose  high 
above  the  general  din.  The  wild  clamour,  the  rude  elbowing 
of  the  mob,  the  rapid  rush  of  men,  the  glare  of  the  countless 
lights,  and  the  lurid  hue  which  they  threw  upon  the  scene,  all 
combined  to  bewilder  and  confuse  Cineas.  But  Julius  was  ac- 
customed to  all  this,  and  led  the  way  quickly  and  readily,  while 
Cineas  had  much  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with  him. 

At  last  they  turned  off  to  the  right  into  a  side  street,  and, 
after  trimming  their  torches,  they  proceeded  onward. 

They  had  not  proceeded  far  before  they  heard  loud  outcries ; 
voices  of  a  threatening  character  mingled  with  stern  words  of 
rebuke,  and  the  shrill  cry  of  a  woman's  voice. 

"  Some  villains  are  attacking  a  helpless  woman,"  said  Julius, 
and  at  once  set  off  on  a  run,  followed  by  Cineas.  Turning 
round  a  corner,  they  came  at  once  upon  the  scene  of  tumult. 


THE  CENTURION. 


179 


fulius, 
|urning 
mlt. 


A  dozen  men,  all  of  whom  appeared  to  be  drank,  with 
torches  in  one  hand  and  swords  in  the  other,  surrounded  one 
solitary  man,  who  stood  with  his  back  to  the  wall  of  a  house, 
while  behind  him  crouched  a  young  girl.  The  man  appeared 
to  be  about  sixty  years  of  age,  and  he  wore  the  dress  of  a 
Roman  centurion.  With  his  drawn  sword  he  tried  to  keep  his 
assailants  at  bay.  They  shouted  around  him,  and  rushed  at 
him,  but  that  drawn  sword,  though  wielded  by  an  aged  hand, 
seemed  to  overawe  them  and  keep  them  at  a  respectful  distance. 
And  so,  shouting  and  dancing  like  maniacs,  they  yelled  out 
hideous  curses  at  the  old  man.  One  of  them  in  particular,  who 
seemed  to  be  the  leader,  was  particularly  careful  to  stand  off  at 
a  safe  distance,  yet  eager  to  hound  on  his  followers.  His  voice 
seemed  familiar  to  Cineas. 

"  Ho  there,  old  rascal ! "  he  cried.  "  What  beggar's  stand 
do  you  come  from  1  Whose  beans  have  you  been  eating  ] 
Speak,  or  take  a  kicking.  You  cowards,"  he  roared,  speaking 
to  his  followers,  "why  don't  you  take  the  old  beggar  by  the 
throat  and  throttle  him  ? " 

Urged  on  thus,  the  villains  made  a  simultaneous  rush  at  the 
old  man.  His  sword  struck  one  of  them  to  the  heart.  Another 
followed.  The  next  instant  a  half  dozen  hands  seized  him.  In 
another  moment  he  would  have  perished. 

But  with  a  loud  shout  Julius  and  Cineas  rushed  upon  them. 
One  man,  whose  sword  was  uplifted  to  plunge  into  the  heart  of 
the  centurion,  fell  beneath  the  sword  of  Julius.  Cineas  sent 
another  after  him.  The  rest  started  back  in  fright,  and,  not 
knowing  but  that  a  whole  guard  of  soldiers  was  assailing  them, 
took  to  their  heels. 

The  old  man  raised  up  the  girl  and  comforted  her. 

"  There,  dearest  daughter,  sweetest  Lydia,"  said  he,  caress- 
ingly, "  all  danger  is  over.  Rise  up.  Fear  not.  Come,  stand 
up  and  thank  these  brave  deliverers,  who  have  saved  us  from 
death  and  shame." 


V'T 


I     W  i'^ 


180 


TJ/fi:  CENTURION. 


i\  i 


The  young  girl  rose,  trembling  still,  with  downcast  eyes,  and, 
after  a  timid  glance  at  the  new  comers,  she  flung  herself  into 
her  father's  arms.     The  old  man  pressed  her  to  his  heart. 

"  Noble  strangers,"  said  he,  "  whoever  you  be,  accept  a 
father's  thanks.  It  is  not  my  life  that  you  have  saved,  but  my 
daughter's  honour.  May  the  blessings  of  the  great  God  be 
yours  ! "  and  again  he  pressed  his  daughter  in  his  arms, 

"  But  how  did  you  dare  to  venture  out  with  this  young  girl?" 
said  Julius,  looking  with  admiration  upon  the  fair  young  crea- 
ture who  hung  round  her  father's  neck,  still  trembling  with 
fright. 

"  We  have  often  gone  out  before.  This  is  a  quiet  street, 
out  of  the  way  of  all  the  villains  who  infest  Rome  atV.';  dark, 
and  I  don't  know  how  they  happened  to  come  down  tlas  way 
to-night.  For  myself  I  have  no  fear.  I  could  easiJ)  face  and 
fight  off  these  cowards,  old  though  I  am.  But  for  h-rr"— the 
old  man  paused. 

"What  could  have  taken  her  out?"  ask  ■  Juliu,-.  "But 
come,  let  us  leave  this.     We  will  go  with  you.     We  v^^ere  going 

leave  you,  for  these  same  men 


uot 


elsewhere,  but  now  we  wil' 
may  attack  you  a-.ain." 

"  Did  you  recognize  that  voice  1 "  asked  Cineas,  as  they 
walked  along. 

"What  voice?" 

"  The  leader's." 

"  Too  well,"  said  the  old  man.  "  That  voice  is  as  well 
known  in  the  streets  of  Rome  as  in  the  palace." 

"  It  was  then  the  voice  of" — Cineas  hesitated, 

"  Nero,"  said  tlie  old  man  sternly.  "  Yes.  The  master  of 
the  world  leads  bands  of  cut-tliroats  and  murderers  after  dark 
through  the  streets  of  Rome." 

They  walked  along  in  silence  for  some  time.  At  last  Julius 
s,K*ke, — 

"  You  invoked  upon  me  the  blessing  of  a  great  God,"  said 


THE  CENTURION. 


l8i 


he  inquiringly,  laying   emphasis  upon  a  form   not   used  by 
Romans.  '  ; 

'*  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  did  so;  I  am  a  Christian." 

Julius  half  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy.  "  And  I,"  said 
he,  "  and  my  friend  are  not  Christians,  but  we  wish  to  know 
something  of  them,  and  I  was  taking  him  to  one  of  their 
meetings." 

"  And  I  was  taking  my  daughter  to  one,"  said  the  old  man. 
He  stopped  and  seized  the  hands  of  Cineas  and  Julius,  one  in 
each  of  his.  "  Oh,  young  men — my  saviours  and  benefactors 
— may  the  great  God  grant  this  to  you,  to  know  him  through 
Christ  Jesus,  as  I  know  him." 

He  then  walked  onward.  "  I  am  a  Christian,  yet  I  have 
slied  blood  this  night.  But  what  else  could  I  do  ?  I  would 
not  do  it  for  myself,  but  could  I  do  otherwise  when  she  was  in 
such  danger  1    No;  no." 

Julius  did  not  understand  such  scruples.  He  declared  that 
he  should  like  to  have  killed  them  all — even  if  the  leader  him- 
self had  fallen.  "  And  you,  Roman  soldier  as  you  are,"  said 
he,  "  what  else  can  you  do  but  fight,  if  you  are  attacked  ] " 

The  old  man  said  nothing  to  this,  but  continued  on  and 
talked  about  something  else.  At  last  they  reached  a  or,  and 
here  the  old  man  paused.  "  You  are  too  late  for  thi  -eeting," 
said  he,  '*  and  my  home  is  of  the  humblest  kind;  bi  .■.  you  will 
come  up  and  rest  for  a  while,  I  shall  consider  myself    onoured." 

Both  Julius  and  Cineas  expressed  their  pleasure,  a  ad  followed 
the  old  man  into  the  house. 

The  house  was  a  lofty  one,  like  most  of  the  common  habita- 
tions in  Rome.  They  followed  the  old  man  up  flight  after 
flight  of  steps,  until  at  last  they  reached  the  very  topmost  story, 
Here  they  entered  a  small  room,  and  this  \^  as  the  home  of  their 
new  acquaintance.  In  this  room  there  was  a  couch,  a  closet 
on  the  top  of  which  were  a  few  small  vases,  a  chesi,  and  some 
seats.     Another  room  adjoined  this,   which  belonged   to  his 


^ 


W^..., 


!     t>    '    if'ij 


\ 


I 

it 


iilli  ^1! 


m:] 


V    \ 


182 


THE  CENTURION. 


daughter.  The  young  men  sat  down,  and  the  maiden  brought 
a  lamp,  and  after  putting  out  their  torches,  the  dull  glimmer  ot 
the  single  lamp  alone  illumined  the  apartment. 

The  old  man  told  them  that  his  name  was  Eubulus,  and  that 
of  his  daughter  Lydia.  Julius  and  Cineas  had  now  more  leisure 
to  regard  the  appearance  of  their  new  acquaintances.  Eubulus 
was  a  man  of  venerable  aspect,  with  crisp  gray  hair,  and  beard 
cut  close,  with  strongly  marked  features,  that  would  have  been 
hard  and  stern,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  certain  sweetness  and 
gentleness  of  expression  mingled  a  kind  of  sadness  that  pre- 
dominated there.  His  speech  was  somewhat  abrupt,  not  from 
rudeness,  but  rather  from  a  kind  of  pre-occupation  of  mind. 
His  daughter  had  no  resemblance  whatever  to  him.  A  sweet 
and  gentle  face,  with  large,  dark,  luminous  eyes,  such  as  are 
peculiar  to  the  south,  with  heavy  masses  of  dark  and  thick 
clustering  hair,  and  rich  olive  complexion ;  a  face  that  showed 
much  womanly  purity  and  tenderness,  with  the  most  delicate 
sensitiveness;  and  in  the  depths  of  those  dark  eyes  of  hers  there 
lay  a  power  of  love  and  devotion  which  could  be  capable,  if 
aroused,  of  daring  all  things  and  enduring  all  things.  Yet  she 
was  a  sufinking  and  timid  girl  now,  not  yet  recovered  from  her 
fright,  grateful  to  her  preservers,  yet  almost  afraid  to  look  at 
them ;  gently  obeying  her  father's  wishes,  doing  his  bidding 
quickly  yet  quietly,  and  then  retreating  like  a  timid  fawn  into 
her  own  xiov!\.  Julius  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  and  looked 
into  that  dark  room  where  she  had  retreated,  as  though  by  his 
gaze  he  would  draw  her  back. 

**  I  have  shed  blood  this  night,"  said  the  centurion,  after  a 
pause ;  "  but  I  call  God  to  witness  that  it  was  not  for  myself ; 
no,  sooner  would  I  die  a  thousand  times.  I  shed  blood  to 
save  my  child — my  pure  and  spotless  one.  No  !  no  !  I  cannot 
have  sinned  in  that.  Could  I  give  up  my  darling  to  these 
fiends  r' 

"  Sinned  1"  cried  Julius,  in  deep  amazement.     "That  blow 


THE  CENTURION. 


183 


that  you  struck  for  her  was  the  holiest  and  noblest  act  of  your 
life,  and  I,  for  my  part,  thank  God  that  I  have  lived,  if  only  for 
this,  that  I  might  strike  a  blow  in  the  same  cause.  The  work 
that  I  have  done  this  night  is  that  which  I  shall  ever  remember 
with  joy.  Could  you  repent  when  you  recall  that  sweet  girl  as 
she  crouched  in  terror  behind  you  %  Can  you  dare  to  wish  that 
you  had  flung  down  your  sword  and  given  her  up  \     Away  ! " 

Julius  rose  to  his  feet,  trembling  with  indignation.  Eubulus 
caught  his  hand  in  both  of  his  own,  and  pressed  it  to  his  heart. 

"  Noble  friend  !  Your  words  give  me  peace.  You  cannot 
know  what  horror  the  thought  of  shedding  blood  can  cause  the 
Christian.  But  you  speak  peace  to  my  conscience.  No — for 
that  sweet  child  I  would  slay  a  score  of  enemies." 

"  And  I — a  thousand  ! "  burst  forth  Juliu?,  impetuously. 

Eubulus  said  nothing,  but  his  eyes  lighted  up  with  pleasure 
as  he  looked  at  the  young  man  who  stood  before  him  in  his 
generous  enthusiasm. 

"  1  am  astonished  at  what  you  have  said  I "  exclaimed  Cineas, 
in  unfeigned  surprise.  "  The  enemies  of  the  Christians  charge 
them  with  cowardice  and  baseness ;  and  what  greater  baseness 
could  there  be  than  this,  that  a  father  should  quietly  and  with- 
out resistance  give  up  his  own  daughter  to  a  band  of  ruffians  1 
A  religion  which  teaches  this  cannot  come  from  God." 

"Say  no  more,"  said  Eubulus;  "I  am  ashamed  of  my  own 
feelings.     He  will  forgive  what  I  have  done." 

"  Forgive  ! "  cried  Cineas.  "  Is  that  the  word  ? — forgive  ! 
He  will  approve  of  it.  He  will  give  you  his  praise.  O  my 
friend,  do  not  abuse  that  religion  of  yours,  which  has  in  it  so 
much  thcvt  is  great  and  pure,  or  else  you  will  make  it  inferior 
to  philosophy,  and  you  will  turn  away  from  it  one  earnest  soul 
that  seeks,  above  all  things,  for  the  truth.  I  am  that  one;  but 
if  in  you,  a  Christian,  I  find  such  sentiments  as  these,  what  can 
I  think  ?  Will  I  not  be  forced  to  think  that  it  is  all  baseness, 
and  poverty  of  spirit,  and  abject  meanness?" 


m. 


,r,i^ 


m 


K>    I 


t        J*       I 

R  i!  r ' 


I' 


(!('■ 


f'# 


i  ■  \' 


'I: 


■  \ 


^^1/ 


1 84 


THE  CENTURION. 


"  No,  no,"  said  Eubulus.  "  If  you  are  an  inquirer,  you  must 
not  judge  by  me  or  any  other  man.  For  all  men  are  weak  and 
frail.  We  are  full  of  sin  and  iniquity.  Judge  from  the  words 
of  the  Holy  One  himself,  and  from  these  only;  not  from  the 
sinful  lives  of  his  sinful  followers,  and  least  of  all  from  me ;  for 
I  am  the  weakest  of  his  servants.  I  strive  to  do  his  will,  but  I 
cannot.  My  life  is  passed  in  struggles  after  a  better  nature; 
but,  woe  is  me !  my  struggles  seem  to  be  all  in  vain.  And 
therefore  my  conscience  is  tender,  and  I  suspect  sin  in  every 
action,  and  I  feel  that  all  which  I  do  is  sinful ;  but  he  is  my 
hope.  He  has  been  the  hope  of  my  life.  He  will  not  desert 
me.     I  trust  in  him." 

Eubulus  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

The  two  friends  remained  for  some  time  longer,  and  at 
length  took  their  departure.  They  walked  home  in  silence, 
each  filled  with  his  own  thoughts — Cineas  wondering  at  this 
new  manifestation  of  tenderness  of  conscience  and  suscepti- 
bility to  remorse,  or  at  least  to  r-epentance ;  Julius  thinking  of 
nothing  but  that  bright  vision  which  had  dazzled  him,  and 
dirown  a  glorious  radiance  over  the  humble  abode  of  the 
centurion. 


i  «? 


XVT. 


%  €^mixnn  Sealing. 


HE  events  of  this  night  gave  Cineas  a  strong  desire 
to  see  more  of  the  Christians.  He  waited  wiih 
some  impatience  for  that  day  which  they  esteemed 
so  sacred,  that  he  might  go  with  JuHus  to  their 
meeting,  and  see  and  learn  what  it  was  that  animated  their 
hearts,  and  gave  holy  motives  to  all  their  lives.  He  began  to 
understand  the  power  which  their  religion  exerted  over  these 
men,  which  made  them  so  watchful  over  every  action,  so 
sensitive  to  faults,  so  quick  to  repentance.  He  wondered  at 
this  new  manifestation  of  human  feeling,  and  thought  that  if 
he  himself  were  thus  to  weigh  every  thought  and  examine  every 
action,  he  might  find  much  to  condemn,  and  many  things  of 
which  he  might  not  approve.  Philosophy  had  never  shown 
this.  He  had  never  learned  thus  to  look  in  upon  his  heart  and 
test  all  its  impulses,  and  examine  all  its  emotions.  The  internal 
struggles  which  he  had  experienced  had  all  referred  to  that 
effort  which  he  made  to  separate  himself  from  the  attraction  of 
material  things.  He  had  sough,  to  live  an  intellectual  life,  to 
regard  the  world  from  a  philosophical  height,  and  despise  its 
grosser  cares;  but  now  he  began  to  discover,  in  a  dim  and 
uncertain  way,  a  mightier  task — the  effort  to  make  all  thought 
and  feeling  absolutely  pure  and  holy.  The  discovery  at  first 
filled  him  with  a  kind  of  dismay,  for  he  felt  that  this  absolute 
purity  of  motive  must  be  unattainable;  yet  he  saw  that  the 


Vh'i 


«*• 


M 


lif 


?  i  I 


i  f 


'   :■%'. 


rPi", 


It  1 


i86 


A  CHRISTIAN  MEETING. 


It 


ceaseless  effort  after  this  must  of  itself  be  noble,  and  have  an 
ennobling  effect  on  all  the  thought  and  all  the  life  of  man. 

All  these  things  only  intensified  his  desire  to  learn  more  of 
the  Christians. 

In  a  few  days  they  set  off  once  more.  Julius  had  been 
there  before,  and  knew  the  place.  It  was  an  upper  room  in 
a  large  house  that  ov  rlooked  the  Tiber.  The  ceremony  of 
breaking  bread  had  already  taken  place,  and  the  two  friends 
found  themselves  in  the  midst  of  an  assembly  that  awaited 
further  services. 

It  was  a  large  room,  capable  of  holding  about  a  hundred, 
and  it  was  filled  with  men,  women,  and  children.  Cineas 
looked  around  with  something  of  surprise  upon  the  bare  walls, 
the  plain  unadorned  apartment.  The  absence  of  anything 
like  statues  or  pictures  satisfied  his  philosophical  soul;  for, 
when  the  spirit  offers  worship  to  the  great  Supreme,  material 
forms  are  not  needed.  This  was  what  he  thought.  A  plain 
table  stood  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  and  behind  this 
there  were  seated  several  men  of  striking  appearance,  one  of 
whom  took  the  lead  in  the  simple  worship.  He  was  not  known 
to  Cineas,  but  the  people  seemed  to  know  him  and  to  love  him 
well,  for  they  regarded  him  with  affectionate  interest,  and 
listened  with  the  most  profound  attention  to  every  word  that 
fell  from  his  lips. 

They  began  by  singing  a  hymn,  which  to  the  educated  and 
refined  ears  of  Cineas  seemed  rude  indeed,  and  barbarous  in 
metre.  The  people  present  belonged  to  the  lower  orders, 
however,  and  the  verses  were  adapted  to  their  comprehension. 
These  Christians  knew  little  or  nothing  of  the  refinements  of 
the  great  national  poets.  They  understood  nothi.ig  of  their 
rules.  They  had  their  own  vulgar  songs,  and  their  Christian 
hymns  were  formed  in  accordance  with  rules  not  known  to  ears 
polite.  They  had  been  accustomed  to  vulgar  rhythms,  where 
the  quantitative  metres  of  the  literary  classes  were  unknown, 


A  CHRISTIAN  MEETING. 


187 


and  the  assonance  of  words  was  loved.  Cineas  listened  to 
their  songs,  and  thought  of  the  verses  of  Nero.  For  Nero  had 
only  tried  to  elevate  the  popular  forms,  and  make  rhyme  pre- 
vail among  the  acknowledged  literary  productions.  These 
Christians  sang  the  metres  and  the  rhymes  which  they  under- 
stood and  appreciated,  and  in  their  hymns  they  expressed  the 
divine  sentiments  of  their  religion,  with  all  its  hope,  and  purity, 
and  devotion,  and  exaltation.  The  hymn  which  they  sang  had 
a  chorus  which  terminated  each  stanza,  and  which  Cineas  could 
not  but  remember: — 

"  Jesu,  tibi  sit  gloria 
In  stnipiterna  iotcula. " 

After  they  had  sung  this,  the  leader  took  a  scroll  and  began 
to  read. 

It  was  a  lofty  assertion  of  the  highest  and  truest  morality,  in 
words  with  which  Cineas  had  already  become  familiar,  which 
had  afforded  him  material  for  profound  reflection,  and  had 
fixed  themselves  in  his  memory. 

"  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit ;  for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

"Blessed  are  they  that  mourn  ;  for  they  shall  be  comforted. 

"  Blesseil  are  the  meek  ;  for  they  shall  inherit  the  earth. 

"  Blessed  are  they  which  do  hunger  and  thirst  after  righteousness ;  for  they  shall  be 
filled. 

"  Blessed  are  the  merciful ;  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy. 

"  Blessed  are  the  piu-e  in  heart ;  for  they  shall  see  God. 

"  Blessed  are  the  peace-makers ;  for  they  shall  be  called  the  childrrn  of  God. 

"  Blessed  ar'i  they  which  are  persecuted  for  righteousness'  sake ;  for  theirs  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven. 

"  Blessed  are  ye  when  men  shall  revile  you,  and  persecute  you,  and  shall  say  all  manner 
of  evil  against  you  falsely  for  my  name's  sake.'' 

These  words,  and  such  as  these,  and  many  more  like  them, 
did  the  leader  read  to  the  congregation,  and  all  present  seemed 
to  hang  with  breathless  suspense  on  these  words  of  life.  They 
were  the  very  words  of  their  Lord.  He  had  spoken  them, 
and  these  followers  of  his  listened  to  them,  familiar  though 
they  were,  as  they  would  have  listened  to  a  voice  from  heaven. 

The  deep  meaning  of  these  words  which  Cineas  had  already 


«•' 


111 


kf! 


\^\i' 


! 


¥1 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


1.1 


11.25 


■  50     "^^ 


2.2 


I 


iiiiir^ 
1.4    11.6 


m 


7m 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14SS0 

(716)  872-4503 


\ 


V 


•^ 


\ 


:\ 


rv 


^A.  ^^ 


'^ 


'^ 


^v^ 


) 


S 


^ 


!       II 


iii 


i88 


A  CHRISTIAN  MEETING. 


felt,  seemed  to  grow  deeper  as  he  listened  to  them  now,  under 
these  new  circumstances.  He  could  not  help  comparing  this 
meeting  with  the  School  of  Philosophy  which  he  had  attended 
in  his  youth.  He  felt  that  here  there  was  something  more 
divine.  Very  different  were  these  words  from  the  words  of 
Socrates. 

Then  the  leader  stretched  forth  his  hands,  raised  his  head, 
and  began  a  solemn  prayer  to  the  Infinite  God.  He  confessed 
many  sins  and  iniquities.  He  implored  forgiveness  for  the 
sake  of  the  One  who  had  died  for  them.  He  prayed  for  assist- 
ance from  the  Eternal  Spirit,  that  they  all  might  walk  in  obe- 
dience to  his  will,  and  live  in  holiness. 

All  this  was  new  to  Cineas,  Not  yet  did  he  understand  this, 
or  fetl  that  he  could  take  part  in  it.  He  was  conscious  of  no 
guilt.  No  sin  lay  heavy  on  his  heart.  But  he  was  disturbed. 
If  these  blameless  men  could  thus  feel  imperfections  and  human 
frailties  to  be  sin,  why  should  not  he;  for  he  in  his  morals  was 
no  better  than  they  %  A  new  standard  of  action  and  of  thought 
seemed  to  arise  before  him,  and  the  old  self-complacency  which 
he  had  so  long  cherished  began  to  fade  away  at  the  sound  of 
this  prayer.  He  began  to  understand  that  there  could  be  such 
a  thing  as  love  for  God,  and  life-long  ser'ice,  and  heartfelt 
devotion,  and  all-absorbing  zeal — to  all  of  which  he  was  yet  a 
stranger.  There  was  a  knowledge  of  God  very  different  from 
that  which  he  possessed,  and  a  love  of  God  very  far  removed 
from  that  vague  sentiment  which  he  had  cherished.  All  these 
things  forced  themsel"es  upon  his  mind. 

But  at  last  the  simple  service  ended,  and  the  little  congrega- 
tion departed,  and  Cineas  walked  away  with  Julius,  agitated  by 
many  new  thoughts. 


1'^ 


XVII. 


Cj^e  <^nb  of  ipropl^ttn. 


|F  Cineas  had  sought  an  interview  with  Paul,  it  might 
perhaps  have  produced  some  change  in  his  feelings. 
As  it  was,  he  remained  unchanged.  The  manu- 
script had  deeply  impressed  him,  but  he  remained 
unconvinced.  His  keen,  subtle,  and  speculative  mind  led  him 
to  scrutinize  everything  carefully,  and  ask — ^why  ? 

Helena  did  not  try  to  convince  him,  for  she  knew  the  attempt 
would  be  useless.  She  contented  herself  with  talking  of  the 
happiness  which  she  found  in  her  belief.  It  had  removed  her 
old  fears,  and  given  a  charm  to  the  future.  Now,  at  last,  she 
knew  how  to  pray,  and  how  to  praise.  Unconsciously,  while 
refraining  from  argument,  she  was  exhibiting  to  her  brother 
something  that  was  more  efficacious  than  all  arguments, — the 
sight  of  one  who  actually  felt  love  for  God.  For  as  Cineas 
looked  at  her,  and  thought  of  the  change  that  had  taken  place 
in  her  heart,  and  compared  her  present  peace  with  her  former 
despondency,  he  felt  that  she  had  gained  something  which  he 
did  not  possess.  She  had,  in  fact,  gained  that  very  thing  for 
which  he  sought — firm  faith,  sure  faith,  absolute  knowledge  of 
God  and  love  for  him.    And  he  wished  that  he  could  be  like  her. 

Yet  the  intellectual  belief  of  a  philosopher  could  not  readily 
obey  the  mere  wish  of  the  heart,  and  so  Cineas  desired  to  draw 
near  to  Christ,  but  evermore  his  reason  interposed,  and  raised 
obstacles,  and  pushed  him  back. 


II 


! 


i  1: 


(.\m 


i|    i    'i 


m 

fl  ■ 

■i 

1 

I 

M 

Hi 

' 

i|i' 

'li    5 

i 

1    ^      . 

1 

190 


THE  END  OF  PROPHECY. 


He  found  an  unfading  charm  in  the  manuscript  of  the 
Christians,  and  as  he  read  it  he  owned  to  himself  at  last,  that 
there  was  more  in  this  little  volume  than  he  had  found  in  all 
the  works  of  Plato.  It  was  direct  It  spoke  to  the  heart. 
He  found  himself  gradually  thinking  'he  thoughts  that  arose 
out  of  this  book,  and  appropriating  the  phraseology.  He  talked 
with  Helena  about  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven ;  about  God  the 
Father  of  all,  and  about  Holiness. 

Of  that  holiness  there  entered  into  his  mind  a  pure  and 
perfect  ideal,  more  elevated  and  more  divine  than  all  the  con- 
ceptions of  philosophy,  and  he  found  that  his  ideal  assumed  the 
form  of  that  mysterious  Being  of  whom  this  book  spoke. 
Socrates,  with  his  irony,  departed  from  his  mind,  and  in  his 
place  there  came  Christ,  with  his  love  and  his  tears.  He 
began  to  see  in  him,  that  for  which  all  the  good  and  wise 
among  the  philosophers  had  sought  so  long,  and  the  search 
for  which  they  had  transmitted  down  through  so  many  ages — • 
the  perfect  Good,  and  perfect  Fair.  All  this  seemed  to  him  to 
live  in  Christ. 

But,  after  all,  he  was  not  yet  so  near  the  actual  adoption  of 
the  Christian  faith  as  might  be  supposed.  All  these  thoughts 
were  intellectual.  His  taste  was  affected.  Christianity  ap- 
peared in  an  aesthetic  light.  His  heart  was  moved  by  the 
sorrows  of  the  great  Sufferer,  but  it  was  not  at  all  moved  by  any 
emotion  of  repentance  or  contrition.  He  had  no  belief  in  his 
own  sin.  The  self-complacency  which  he  had  always  felt  still 
remained.  Why  should  he  repent  1  What  had  he  to  repent  of  1 
What  confession  could  he  make  %  He  could  pray  to  God  for 
enlightenment,  but  not  for  paruon. 

One  thing  he  did  believe  most  firmly,  and  that  was  that  if 
the  sacred  writings  of  the  Jews  had  any  lofty  meaning,  then  all 
that  meaning  must  be  sought  for  in  Christ.  To  accept  Christ 
as  the  result  of  the  Jewish  scriptures,  was  to  him  almost  to 
make  those  scriptures  divine.     Besides  such  an  interpretation 


THE  END  OF  PROPHECY. 


191 


as  this,  the  theories  of  Isaac  were  puerile  and  vulgar.  In  a 
spiritual  interpretation  he  saw  the  truest  and  the  sublimest 
philosophy. 

He  hinted  this  once  to  Isaac. 

"  Cannot  your  Messiah,"  he  asked,  "  of  whom  you  speak  so 
much,  be,  after  all,  as  I  have  suggested  before,  a  holy  Prophet 
— a  Teacher — one  who  will  try  to  make  your  people  purer  in 
heart  and  better  in  life  ?  This,  I  think,  would  be  an  act  more 
worthy  of  God  than  to  send  a  king  or  a  general  who  would 
only  shed  the  blood  of  men." 

"Never,"  cried  Isaac,  vehemently,  and  with  all  the  fervid 
passion  which  invariably  showed  itself  when  such  a  thing  was 
hinted  at.  "  Never.  No,  no,  a  thousand  times  no.  The  pro- 
mises of  God  are  true  and  righteous,  and  they  will  be  fulfilled. 
They  are  literal,  or  they  are  nothing.  He  will  not  thus  mock 
those  who  for  ages  have  put  their  trust  in  him.  He  has  pro- 
mised us  this  thing,  as  we  understand  it,  in  the  most  direct  and 
unmistakable  language ;  for  ages  we  have  waited,  and  believed, 
and  hoped.  Prophet  after  prophet  has  come,  and  each  suc- 
ceeding one  has  spoken  in  the  same  language,  and  confirmed 
our  hope  for  the  Deliverer.  As  he  is  faithful  and  true,  so 
will  he  not  deceive  his  own  people. 

"  He  has  promised  before,  many  and  many  a  time,  both  for 
good  and  evil,  and  every  promise  has  been  fulfilled.  He  pro- 
mised to  our  fathers,  when  they  were  slaves  in  the  land  of 
Egypt,  that  he  would  lead  them  to  a  fair  and  fertile  land ;  and 
he  did  so.  They  wandered  for  years,  amid  suffering  and 
calamity,  but,  nevertheless,  they  reached  the  Promised  Land  at 
last.  He  promised  victory  over  many  enemies  at  different 
times ;  and  the  victory  always  came.  He  threatened  division 
of  the  kingdom ;  and  the  kingdom  was  divided.  He  threatened 
subjugation  by  an  enemy,  and  long  captivity ;  and  the  subju- 
gation and  the  captivity  came.  He  promised  deliverance  from 
this  captivity ;  and  the  deliverance  came. 


% 


111; 


192 


THE  END  OF  PROPHECY. 


\    I 


t    I 


"  All  these  were  unmistakable  promises,  not  intended  to  refei 
to  some  dark,  spiritual  fulfilment,  but  to  a  direct  literal  one, 
and  that  direct  literal  fulfilment  every  one  of  them  met  with. 

"  And  now,  when  I  look  at  the  great  promise  that  stands 
supreme  among  all  promises,  through  all  ages,  coming  down 
from  our  first  father,  Abraham,  what  is  that  I  see  ?  Can  I  see 
anything  else  than  this,  that  if  anything  be  literal,  this  must  be 
so  more  than  any  other]  Will  he  who  led  his  people  on 
through  such  sorrows,  and  so  afflicted  them,  thus  trifle  with 
them,  and  show  that  thus  through  all  their  history  he  has 
amused  them  with  an  empty  shadow — a  vain  hope — an  idle 
tale  1  What  to  us,  in  our  slavery,  is  a  mere  prophet  worth  1 
We  have  had  prophets.  We  want  no  more.  We  want  him  of 
whom  all  the  prophets^  spake  \  to  whom  they  pointed,  and  whom 
they  promised.  We  want  him  to  come  and  sit  upon  the  throne  of 
David  in  Jerusalem,  not  to  teach,  but  to  reign.  We  are  weary 
with  waiting,  and  praying,  and  hoping,  and  longing.  We  are  weary 
and  broken-hearted.  Oh,  thou  long-expected  One !  come  quickly. 
Take  thy  throne.     Reign  till  all  enemies  are  put  under  thy  feet. 

"  But  why  do  I  fear  1    I  tell  you,"  cried  Isaac,  with  startling 
emphasis,  "  that  he  will  come,  and  begin  his  reign.     The  time 
is  at  hand.     All  things  denote  his  approach,     You  yourself  will 
live  to  see  him,  and  that  very  soon." 
■    Cineas  expressed  his  surprise  at  this,  and  asked  Isaac  to  explain. 

"  In  our  prophecies,"  said  Isaac,  *•  the  great  One  is  not  only 
promised,  but  the  time  of  his  coming  is  also  told.  For  ages 
our  priests  have  calculated  the  time  of  that  appearance,  and 
naturally  enough,  they  at  first  made  it  come  at  an  earlier  period 
than  was  said.  Each  generation  loved  to  think  that  the  pro- 
phecy was  to  be  fulfilled  in  its  own  day.  For  the  last  thirty  or 
forty  years  the  people  have  expected  his  appearance  every  day. 
False  Messiahs  have  appeared,  basing  their  pretensions  on  this 
prophecy,  and  sometimes  they  have  gained  many  followers. 
But  they  were  all  wrong.     In  their  fond  expectation  they  put  a 


Iplain. 
only 
ages 
L  and 
|)eriod 
pro- 
rty  or 
day. 
this 
bwers. 
Iput  a 


THE  END  OF  PROPHECY. 


193 


forced  construction  on  the  words  of  our  sacred  writings.  This  is 
the  reason  why  they  have  been  so  often  disappointed. 

"  But  now  the  time  is  at  hand  in  literal  truth.  The  mistake 
which  our  fathers  made  need  not  be  made  now.  We  have  the 
record  of  the  holy  prophets,  and  the  plain  statement  of  the  time 
of  his  appearance,  from  which  any  one  who  can  calculate  may 
see  for  himself  that  this  is  the  hour.  These  calculations  I  have 
made  over  and  over,  jealous  of  error,  jealous  of  my  own  wishes, 
lest  they  should  lead  me  astray,  and  I  have  come  to  this  con< 
elusion,  that  this  is  the  very  latest  possible  period  at  which  he 
can  arrive.  He  must  come  now,  or  never.  If  he  does  not 
come  now  within  five,  or  perhaps  ten  years,  then  he  will  never 
come,  or  the  prophecy  will  be  all  wrong,  all  deceit,  all  mockery 
of  the  worst  and  most  cruel  kind.  But  as  God  cannot  deceive, 
so  must  this  word  of  his  be  all  fulfilled." 

Cineas  listened  quietly.  He  had  no  curiosity  to  examine 
the  calculations  of  Isaac,  for  he  was  more  than  ever  convinced 
that  it  was  all  a  mistake.  He  had  no  sympathy  with  the  nar- 
row prejudice  of  the  Jew,  and  could  only  wonder  at  the  death- 
like tenacity  with  which  Isaac  clung  to  his  idea. 

"All  the  land  feels  the  power  of  his  presence,"  continued 
Isaac.  "  The  people  know  that  he  is  near.  They  rise  to  meet 
him ;  they  are  sure  that  he  will  come.  A  mighty  movement  is 
beginning,  and  all  the  land  trembles  beneath  the  deep  hum  of 
preparation." 

"  How  are  they  preparing  1"  asked  Cineas. 

"  With  arms,  and  for  war,"  cried  Isaac,  fiercely.  "  For  they 
are  slaves,  and  they  feel  that  if  they  would  meet  the  Deliverer 
in  a  fitting  manner,  they  must  be  free,  and  must  themselves 
strike  the  first  blow.  And  any  one  who  has  lived  in  Judea 
knows  this,  that  of  all  men  the  Jews  are  those  who  will  dare  the 
most,  and  achieve  the  most.  War  must  come.  It  is  inevitable. 
The  oppression  of  the  Romans  has  become  unendurable.  If  the 
Jews  were  a  more  patient  race,  even  then  they  might  have  cause 

»3 


m 


} 


(188) 


i[ 


194 


THE  END  OF  PROPHECY. 


i     . 


i 


to  rise  for  mere  revenge.  But  they  are  of  all  men  least  patient, 
and  they  mean  to  rise,  not  for  revenge,  but  for  freedom  ;  and 
for  whatever  else  that  freedom  may  lead  to.  They  are  filled 
with  the  same  desire,  and  move  to  the  same  impulse,  and  there 
is  not  a  man — a  man,  do  I  say  ? — there  is  not  a  woman,  there 
is  not  a  child,  who  is  not  ready  to  face  all  things,  and  undergo 
death  itself.  Whence  comes  this  feeling,  this  passion,  so  uni- 
versal, so  desperate  %  It  is  not  all  human  or  national,  it  rises 
in  obedience  to  a  deeper  impulse  than  mere  patriotism.  It  is 
divine.  It  comes  from  above.  It  is  sent  by  God.  It  is  his 
time.  It  is  the  hour  long  hoped  for,  but  long  delayed,  expected 
through  the  ages,  waited  for  with  prayer  and  tears,  and  now  it 
comes,  and  he  makes  his  presence  felt,  and  he  is  there  in  that 
holy  land,  breathing  his  power  into  the  hearts  of  the  people, 
that  so  he  may  arouse  them,  and  inspire  them  with  a  holy  pur- 
pose, and  a  desperate  resolve,  before  which  all  mere  human 
feelings  shall  be  weak  and  futile.  He  will  first  make  the 
people  worthy  of  their  high  mission,  and  then  he  will  send  the 
Messiah." 

"  You  speak  of  God  causing  all  this  excitement  of  feeling," 
said  Cineas,  "  of  which  I  have  heard.  What  do  you  think  the 
Supreme  One  may  design  in  all  this  " — 

"  First  our  freedom,"  said  Isaac,  interrupting  him ;  "  that  first 
of  all.  I  believe  that  it  is  his  will  that  the  people  whom  he  has 
so  often  delivered  before,  shall  be  delivered  yet  again." 

"  Do  you  understand  fully  against  what  power  they  will  have 
to  fight  %"  asked  Cineas.  **  You  are  not  a  Jewish  peasant. 
You  have  travelled  over  all  the  world.  You  have  lived  in 
Rome.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  the  power  of  Rome.  Can 
you  conceive  it  possible  that  one  of  the  smallest  of  the  pro- 
vinces can  shake  off  the  mighty  yoke  of  Caesar,  or  that  your 
people  can  wage  a  successful  war  ag;  'nst  the  world  i" 

"  With  God  all  things  are  possible,"  said  Isaac. 

"  Yes ;  but  in  the  course  of  human  affairs,  have  you  not 


THE  END  OF  PROPHECY. 


\ 

«9S 


usually  noticed  this  fact,  that  the  weaker  people  must  be  con- 
quered by  an  overwhelming  force,  no  matter  how  just  their 
cause  1" 

"No,"  said  Isaac,  drily.  "The  Greeks  did  not  think  so 
when  Persia  sent  her  innumerable  hosts  against  them." 

"  True,"  said  Cineas ;  "  but  the  Persians  were  inferior  to  the 
Greeks.  Those  same  Greeks  afterwards  marched  all  through 
Asia,  and  found  out  their  weakness.  The  Romans  are  different. 
They  conquered  Greece,  and  thought  it  a  very  easy  matter.  Is 
there  a  people  on  earth  who  can  withstand  the  legions  of 
Caesar  1" 

"  Yes,"  said  Isaac ;  "  that  people  who  have  God  on  their 
side  can  overcome  even  the  legions  of  Caesar.  In  our  past 
history  we  have  done  things  as  great  as  this.  That  history  is 
full  of  such  victories  against  overwhelming  odds.  The  nation 
grew  and  developed  itself  in  the  midst  of  powerful  enemies. 
The  Jews  have  more  than  once  fought  successfully  against 
monarchs  who  were  masters  of  the  world.  They  have  lived, 
and  they  have  seen,  in  the  course  of  ages,  the  rise  and  fall  of 
many  empires.  They  have  seen  the  rise  of  Rome ;  they  will 
see  its  fall." 

"Its  fall!" 

"  Why  not  ?  Is  Rome  beyond  the  reach  of  reverse  1  Are 
the  Romans  gods,  that  they  should  be  for  ever  free  from  adver- 
sity i  They  have  lived  their  life,  and  have  done  their  work. 
Their  time  is  over." 

"  When  a  Roman  army  enters  Judea,  I  fear  you  will  find  that 
her  strength  is  as  great  as  ever." 

"  I  can  understand  the  unbelief  of  a  Greek,"  said  Isaac. 
"  In  your  history  all  is  human.  Ours  is  divine.  All  our  history 
is  the  work  of  God.  We  have  lived  through  a  succession  of 
miracles.  He  chose  us  out  from  among  all  nations.  He  has 
been  our  God  when  all  the  gods  of  the  nations  were  idols.  He 
has  saved  us  from  all  enemies,  and  he  will  save  us  again. 


'I 


fit 


,■'  *".  "'IJ 


I^i 


m 


196 


77/^  EJVD  OF  PROPHECY. 


"  But,"  he  continued,  "  even  from  your  own  point  of  view,  a 
rebellion  is  not  as  desperate  a  thing  as  you  suppose.  Do  you 
know  the  nature  of  the  country  1  It  is  filled  with  mountains 
and  dangerous  passes,  and  commanding  positions,  each  one  of 
which  may  be  made  a  Thermopylae.  The  principal  towns  are 
situated  in  places  which  give  them  inconceivable  strength,  so 
that  if  they  are  well  supplied  with  provisions,  they  can  hold  out 
against  attack  for  an  indefinite  period.  Above  all,  Jerusalem  is 
most  strongly  situated.  If  the  people  have  provisions  enough, 
they  can  withstand  a  siege  for  ever.  Mountains  are  all  around. 
Its  walls  rise  over  high  precipices.  It  is  distant  from  the 
coast." 

"  But  if  the  people  have  not  provisions  enough,  what  then  1" 

"  No  siege  could  last  ionp;  enough  to  bring  on  a  famine,"  said 
Isaac  confidently.  "  The  defenders  of  the  city  would  keep  the 
besiegers  in  a  constant  state  of  alarm.  The  tremendous  sweep 
of  the  Jewish  battle-charge  would  drive  them  off.  Besides, 
while  the  Jews  might  suffer,  the  enemy  would  suffer  none  the 
less.  All  the  country  would  be  filled  with  a  hostile  and  fierce 
population.  Supplies  of  provisions  could  not  be  maintained. 
They  would  be  cut  off  in  their  way.  If  the  besieging  army  had 
ample  supplies  always  at  hand,  even  then  it  could  not  take 
Jerusalem  ;  but  with  my  knowledge  of  the  country  and  its  in- 
habitants, I  consider  that  no  army  could  be  fed  before  Jerusa- 
lem, if  the  people  are  unanimous  in  their  determination  to  make 
war.  If  Jerusalem  starves,  the  besieging  army  must  starve  also, 
and  at  such  a  game  it  is  easy  to  see  which  side  would  give  up 
first.  The  Jews  could  die  of  famine,  glad?y  if  it  were  neces- 
sary ;  but  the  besieging  army  could  not  be  supported  in  such  a 
dire  extremity." 

"  But  before  famine  could  come  to  that  besieging  army,"  said 
Cineas,  "  the  Roman  engines  would  have  some  work  to  do." 

"  Ay,  and  hard  work,  too.  For  all  the  Roman  engines  the 
Jews  could  find  fire,  and  few  would  get  up  to  the  walls.     What 


.!! 


THE  END  OF  PROPHECY. 


«97 


ew,  a 
o  you 
ntains 
jne  of 
ns  are 
;th,  so 
>ld  out 
ilem  is 
nough, 
iround. 
)m  the 

then?" 
e,"  said 
:eep  the 
IS  sweep 
Besides, 
one  the 
,d  fierce 
Intained. 
•my  had 
ot  take 
Id  its  in- 
Jerusa- 
|to  make 
■ve  also, 
give  up 
neces- 
such  a 


rY' 


"  said 
do." 
ines  the 

What 


then  1  I  believe  the  chief  fighting  would  be  outside  the  walls, 
and  the  fate  of  the  city  decided  without  the  intervention  of 
battering-rams.  But  why  talk  of  these  things  1  They  are  all 
nothing.  The  Jews  have  that  to  rely  on  of  which  the  world 
knows  nothing.  For  ages  they  have  looked  up  to  God.  The 
smallest  child  reverences  the  spiritual  Being.  He  knows 
nothing  of  idols.  The  poorest  peasant  prays  to  his  unseen 
Creator.  He  believes  in  him.  He  trusts  in  him.  That  One 
in  whom  they  all  so  believe  and  trust,  is  worthy  of  this  confi- 
dence, and  will  show  himself  so.  I  cannot  reason  about  the 
probabilities  of  the  conflict,  and  shut  my  eyes  to  him.  With 
him  the  decision  will  rest.  hrA  can  I  believe  that  he  will 
decide  against  his  own  1" 

"  But  suppose  the  Jews  do  get  their  freedom,  what  then  %  Is 
there  a  wider  dominion  in  these  hopes  1 " 

"  There  is,"  said  Isaac,  calmly. 

"What?" 

"  The  world." 

"  You  believe  that  the  end  of  all  the  acts  of  God  is  to  make 
Jerusalem  the  capital  of  the  world  1 " 

"  Most  devoutly ;  most  devoutly,"  ejaculated  Isaac  ;  "  I  have 
told  you  this  before,  and  I  now  affirm  my  belief  with  fresh 
emphasis." 

"  It  is  worthy  of  him,"  said  Isaac,  after  a  pause ;  "  most 
worthy  of  him.  The  Jews,  his  chosen  people,  alone  have  the 
knowledge  of  him.  All  the  rest  of  mankind  know  him  not.  Is 
it  not  worthy  of  him  that  he  should  design  to  make  himself 
known  over  all  the  world  as  he  is  now  among  the  Jews  1  Would 
not  the  world  be  blessed  indeed  if  it  worshipped  the  one 
Supreme  God  ?  Now,  all  the  world  is  idolatrous.  The  con- 
quest of  the  world  by  the  Jews  is  something  more  than  a  succes- 
sion of  common  victories,  and  means  something  greater  than  a 
common  empire,  with  taxes  and  tribute.  It  means  the  exten- 
sion of  the  knowledge  of  God,  so  that  all  mankind  may  learn 


w 


I      !| 


i 
■  It' 


198  T//E  END  OF  PROPHECY. 

that  he  is  their  father,  and  love  him,  and  worship  him  as  such. 
For  this  he  calls  on  us  to  rise.  For  this  he  is  about  to  send  us 
our  great  Leader,  before  whom  all  the  armies  of  Rome  will  be 
broken  in  pieces,  and  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  bow  the  knee. 
This  is  worthy  of  God." 

"  But  at  what  a  cost  I "  said  Cineas.  "  Blood,  and  fire,  and 
devastation,  and  plundered  cities,  and  blazing  villages.  What 
kind  of  a  Being  is  this  who  thus  seeks  to  make  man  worship 
him?" 

"  The  world  may  suffer,"  said  Isaac ;  "  but  what  then  1  It 
will  suffei  that  it  may  be  blessed.  One  generation  shall  endure 
misery  that  all  the  future  may  receive  true  happiness.  One 
march,  and  one  conquest,  and  all  is  over.  He  shall  reign 
whose  right  it  is  to  reign.  He  shall  have  dominion  from  sea  to 
sea,  and  from  the  rivers  unto  the  ends  of  the  earth  I  " 

Cineas  said  nothing.  He  saw  how  Isaac  had  moulded  his 
whole  soul  to  this  one  thought,  and  as  it  was  repulsive,  beyond 
all  others,  to  himself,  he  chose  to  drop  the  subject. 

But  after  that  conversation  he  looked  with  new  interest  towards 
the  land  of  Judea,  anxious  to  hear  the  news  that  came  from 
that  quarter,  and  to  see  if  rebellion  were  really  so  imminent  as 
Isaac  said. 


M   . 


y  ■: 


i<l 


/*' 


XVIII. 


t  ffirilon. 


IINEAS  had  advanced  thus  far,  that  he  could  recog- 
nize the  wondrous  sweetness  and  beauty  of  Chris- 
tianity. He  was  surrounded  by  those  who  offered  to 
him  its  fairest  manifestations.  The  venerable  nurse, 
who  had  now  regained  all  her  former  calm  ;  and  Helena,  who  no 
longer  had  any  spiritual  doubts  or  fears ;  and  Marcus,  whose 
whole  life  had  been  passed  amidst  the  purest  influences  ; — all 
showed  him  how  blessed  a  thing  that  religion  was,  which  taught 
man  to  look  up  to  his  Maker,  not  with  fear  or  doubt,  but  with 
afiection  and  confidence.  He  saw,  also,  that  Julius  was  about 
to  join  them.  Something  had  strengthened  those  tendencies 
toward  Christianity  which  he  had  for  a  long  time  manifested  ; 
his  attendance  at  their  meetings  was  constant ;  his  manner  had 
changed ;  and  some  deep  and  solemn  purpose  lay  in  his  soul. 
All  these  things,  which  he  saw  every  day,  appealed  to  his  feel- 
ings, and  he  was  compelled  to  reason  down  those  feelings,  and 
guard  against  them,  lest  they  should  carry  him  away  beyond  his 
positive  belief. 

Nothing  had  a  stronger  effect  upon  him  than  the  words  of 
Marcus.  He  uset.  to  listen  in  wonder  to  that  slender,  spiritual 
boy  as  he  talked  of  God  his  Father,  and  of  heaven  ;  things  un- 
known to  all  boys  whom  Cineas  had  ever  seen,  but  familiar  to 
the  mind  of  this  singular  being,  who  indeed,  sometimes,  when 
talking  of  these  things,  had  such  a  radiant  face,  and  such  a  glory 


'y 


;  ■■  ■«  .i 


'A-  ^  I 


li   ! 


W^i 


(f^rv 


IMi 


1  I   ^''f 

1  :|   -! 


I  I-' 


200 


ri/i:  BRITON. 


around  his  brows,  that  he  seemed  himself  to  have  known  some* 
thing  of  the  world  of  which  he  loved  to  speak. 

He  still  maintained  his  friendship  for  the  Briton  with  un- 
diminished ardour,  and  still  at  almost  any  hour  of  the  day  these 
two  strange  friends  might  be  seen  together,  in  the  portico,  or  in 
the  garden,  sometimes  hand  in  hand,  while  at  other  times  Gal- 
dus  carried  him  on  his  broad  shoulders. 

Marcus  loved  to  talk  to  Galdus  of  that  which  occupied  so 
much  of  his  thought.  He  talked  with  him  about  everything, 
and  of  this  not  the  least.  The  Briton  attached  but  a  very 
indistinct  meaning  to  what  he  heard,  but  he  always  listened 
attentively  and  admiringly.  To  such  conversations  Cineas  was 
not  unfrequently  a  listener,  and  it  made  him  wonder  still  more 
to  see  a  child  talking  about  spiritual  subjects  to  a  barbariar. 
About  such  things  philosophers  might  speculate,  but  here  the 
Supreme  Being  had  made  his  great  presence  felt  in  the  heart  of 
a  child.  About  that  Being  the  Briton  had  but  dim  and  indis- 
tinct ideas.  He  always  thought  of  him  somehow  in  connection 
with  Marcus,  as  though  this  angelic  boy  were  of  some  heavenly 
nature,  and  therefore  nearer  to  the  Divine.  For  when  Marcus 
tried  to  tell  what  the  Great  One  was,  the  Briton  could  find  nothing 
that  realized  the  description  in  his  mind  so  well  as  the  boy  himself. 

To  such  a  conversation  Cineas  listened  one  day,  when  he 
stood  on  the  portico,  and  the  boy  and  his  companion  were 
seated  on  the  grass  before  a  broad  pool,  from  the  midst  of 
which  a  wide  jet  of  water  burst  upward  in  o  the  air,  and  fell  in 
clouds  of  spray  back  again  into  the  basin. 

"  Only  see,"  said  Marcus,  "  that  golden,  glittering  spray  !  and 
behind  it  there  is  a  rainbow,  and  the  water  in  the  basin 
looks  like  silver.  When  we  get  to  heaven,  I  suppose  all  will  be 
golden  like  this,  only  brighter." 

"  It  ought  to  be  all  golden  and  bright  where  you  go,"  said 
Galdus,  admiringly  ;  "  and  even  then  it  will  not  be  good  enough 
for  you.     But  that  world  is  for  you,  not  for  me." 


THE  BRITON. 


aos 


vn  some* 


*•  Not  for  you  ]  Why  not  1  Yes  it  is,  for  you  as  well  as  for 
me.     I  want  you  there " —  ''  J 

"  No,  no  ;  I'm  a  barbarian, — you  are  like  a  god." 

"  A  god !  I  am  only  a  child,  but  I  hope  to  go  there,  for 
children  are  loved  and  welcomed  there ;  and  don't  you  wish  to 
go  there  1" 

"  I  wish  it,  but  I  must  go  elsewhere." 

"Elsewhere!" 

"  Yes,  to  live  again  as  a  warrior,  or  perhaps  as  an  animal. 
Who  knows  1    I  don't." 

"  To  live  again  !  Yes ;  but  not  here,  not  as  a  warrior.  No ; 
you  too  shall  be  an  angel,  in  that  golden  world,  if  you  only 
wish  to,  and  try  to.     Don't  you  wish  to  ? " 

"  I  wish  to  be  with  you,"  said  Galdus,  lovingly,  taking  the 
thin  white  hand  of  Marcus  in  both  of  his,  and  looking  at  him 
with  adoring  fondness. 

"  Don't  you  love  Godi" 

"  You  are  my  God." 

"  O  Galdus  I  Don't  dare  to  say  that.  Only  one  is  God. 
Don't  you  love  him  1 " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  him.     I  fear  him." 

"  Fear  him  ! " 

"  Yes ;  all  that  I  ever  heard  about  one  G  )d,  or  many 
gods,  makes  me  fear  one  and  all.  They  are  all  fierce  and 
terrible.  Let  me  keep  away  from  them  all,  and  be  near 
you." 

"You  do  not  know  him  then,"  said  Marcus,  in  mournful 
accents. 

"  Those  who  know  him  best,  fear  him  most." 

"Who?" 

"The  Druids.  They  are  our  priests.  They  are  the  only 
ones  who  tell  us  of  him." 

"  They  don't  know  him,"  said  Marcus,  positively. 

"  Why  not  1    They  are  wise,  venerable  men,  with  gray  hair 


f;.!!!': 


i 


,':   ), 


203 


THE  BRITON. 


and  long  white  beards.     They  live  in  groves,  and  sometimes 
see  him,  and  he  tells  them  what  he  wants." 

"And  if  he  does,  do  you  not  know  how  good  he  isl" 

"  Good  !  he  is  terrible." 

"Terrible!  how?" 

"  He  thirsts  for  blood.  Nothing  but  blood.  I  have  seen 
my  own  brother  laid  on  a  stone,  and  the  priest  plunge  his  sharp 
knife  in  his  throat." 

Marcus  shuddered,  and  looking  earnestly  at  the  Briton, 
asked, — 

"  Why,  what  do  these  murderers  do  that  for  % " 

"  Because  l.e  wants  blood.  I  have  seen  worse  than  this.  I 
have  seen  a  great  cage  filled  with  men,  women,  and  children, 
and  these  priests  kiryiled  fires  around  it  and  burned  them 
all  up." 

Marcus  moaned,  and  hid  his  face  against  the  breast  of  the 
Briton. 

"  Oh,  horror ! "  he  cried  at  last,  "  what  do  they  mean  by 
this  %  What  do  they  think  %  Do  they  think  t.hey  know  him  1 
What  do  they  think  he  is  %  It  is  not  God  that  they  worship. 
It  is  the  devil.  He  tells  them  lies.  He  is  the  one  that  wants 
blood." 

"Whoever  it  is/'  said  Galdus,  quietly,  "that  is  what  they 
do,  and  that  is  why  I  fear  him,  and  think  him  terrible." 

"  But  this  is  all  wrong,"  said  Marcus,  passionately.  "  They 
do  not  know  him.  He  loves  us.  He  hates  blood.  These 
dreadful  things  are  dreadful  to  him." 

"  Loves  us  ] "  repeated  Galdus,  slowlj . 

"  Yes." 

"  I  don't  understand.  He  sends  thunder  and  lightning,  and 
storms  and  tempests.  How  can  he  love  us  ?  When  \  hear  the 
thunder  I  fear  him  most." 

"  And  T,"  said  Marcus,  "  have  no  fear,  for  I  know  how  good 
he  is.     Why  should  I  fear  the  thunder  %    He  gives  us  food  and 


THE  BRITON. 


203 
Tbit 


light,  and  the  sweet  flowers,  and  the  bright  sunshine, 
shows  what  care  he  takes  of  us." 

"  I  didn't  think  of  that,"  said  Galdus,  slowly. 

"And  then,  you  know,  he  has  been  here.  He  wished  to 
take  us  all  to  heaven,  and  so  he  came  and  lived  among  us — and 
died.     Haven't  I  often  told  you  this  1 " 

"Yes;  but  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  Galdus,  with  a  be- 
wildered air.  "  You  are  different  from  me.  I  learned  to  fear 
him,  and  now,  when  you  tell  me  such  things  as  these,  I  think 
they  were  done  for  you  and  not  for  me." 

"  For  all,"  said  Marcus,  in  a  sweet,  low  voice.  "  He  went 
about  all  the  time  among  poor  people,  and  sick  people,  and 
little  children,  and  spoke  kind  words;  and  when  he  saw  any  one 
suffering,  he  at  once  went  there  and  comforted  him." 

"  As  you  did  to  me,"  said  Galdus,  with  glistening  eyes  and 
tremulous  voice,  "  in  that  place  where  I  lay  struck  down  by  a 
coward,  and  all  men  left  me  to  myself,  where  they  had  thrown 
me,  as  if  I  were  a  dog ;  and  you  came  with  your  fair  fa^-e,  and 
I  looked  up  and  thought  I  saw  a  vision.  For  you  stood  with 
tears  in  your  eyes;  and  then  I  first  heard  your  dear  sweet 
voice,  and  you  spoke  pityingly,  as  a  mother  might  speak,  and  I 
was  astonished  ;  but  I  worshipped  you  in  my  heart.  When  you 
talk  to  me  of  your  God,  and  tell  me  how  he  came  to  the  poor 
and  the  suffering,  then  I  think  of  you  as  you  came  there,  and  I 
see  nothing  but  you.  I  know  not  your  God.  I  know  mine. 
You  are  my  God,  and  I  worship  you." 

And  the  rude,  strong  Briton  pressed  Marcus  in  his  arms, 
strongly  yet  tenderly;  and  the  boy  felt  the  beating  of  the  stout 
heart  in  that  giant  frame,  which  now  was  shaken  with  emotion, 
and  he  knew  how  strong  a  hold  he  had  on  the  affection  of  that 
fierce  and  mugged  nature. 

"  You  love  me,  dear  Galdus,  and  I  know  it  well,  but  don't 
say  that  I  am  your  God.  I  love  you,  but  there  is  one  that 
loves  you  better." 


m. 


'^!   \ 


\ 


304 


T}1E  BRITON. 


%\  ;^'' 


"  No,  no — that  is  impossible.  I  know  how  you  love  me. 
And  you  have  made  me  forget  my  country."  \ 

"  He  loves  you,"  said  Marcus,  with  childish  persistency. 
"  He  will  give  you  a  better  country." 

"  I  cannot  think  of  him.  You  are  the  only  one  that  I  can 
think  of,  when  you  talk  of  love,  and  piety,  and  such  things." 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  him,  and  could  think  of  him  as  I  do," 
said  Marcus,  "  then  you  would  love  him,  and  you  would  know 
that  anything  that  I  have  done  is  nothing  to  ail  that  he  has 
done !  If  I  came  to  you  when  you  were  so  wounded  and 
suffering,  be  sure  that  it  was  because  he  sent  me  there  to  you. 
He  was  there,  but  you  did  not  see  him.  He  has  done  far  more 
than  this,  too;  he  has  died  for  you,  to  make  you  love  him,  and 
bring  you  to  heaven  at  ^ast." 

'•That  is  the  way  you  always  talk,"  said  Galdus,  "but  I 
cannot  see  how  it  is.     I  don't  understand  it." 

So  they  spake,  and  still,  as  Marcus  told  his  childish  faith, 
Galdus  could  only  say  that  he  did  not  understand.  To  all  this 
Cineas  listened,  and  marvelled  much,  and  wondered  where  the 
boy  had  obtained  that  deep  conviction  which  he  expressed, 
speaking  of  it  always  as  he  would  speak  of  some  self-evident 
truth,  something  which  he  had  always  known,  and  supposed  all 
other  men  knew  as  well  as  he. 


v\ 


r   I 


y-e. 


XIX. 

%t  €ayxtt, 

|HE  fortunes  of  Labeo  had  been  advancing  in  the 
meanwhile.  Some  time  before,  Nero  had  given 
him  a  tribuneship — an  office  once  powerful,  but 
now  with  very  little  authority.  However,  it  was  a 
step  onward  in  that  path  in  which  Labeo  wished  to  advance, 
and  the  manner  in  which  it  was  given  was  a  mark  of  great  and 
unusual  distinction,  for  he  was  not  required  to  hold  the  office  of 
quaestor,  which  generally  preceded  it.  During  the  year  of  his 
tribuneship,  he  acted  with  great  moderation  and  reserve,  under- 
standing well  the  character  of  the  times,  and  knowing  that  in 
Nero's  reign  the  want  of  exertion  was  the  truest  distinction. 
After  this  was  over,  he  was  made  praetor,  and  conducted  him- 
self with  the  same  judgment  and  silent  dignity.  He  had  no 
occasion,  as  it  fortunately  happened,  to  sit  in  judgment,  for  that 
branch  of  the  magistrate's  business  did  not  fall  to  his  share. 
The  prefect  of  the  city  had  charge  of  the  public  offences,  and 
nothing  remained  for  him  but  the  exhibition  of  public  spectacles 
and  the  amusement  of  the  populace.  He  conducted  these  at 
once  with  magnificence  and  economy,  so  that  while  there  was 
no  profuse  expenditure,  he  yet  was  secure  of  popularity. 

He  found  himself  as  welcome  as  ever  at  Court,  and  Nero  still 
with  extraordinary  constancy  jested  at  his  "Cato."  Had  it 
been  the  affections  of  the  emperor  that  were  concerned,  or  the 
public  interest,  or  the  wishes  of  the  people,  his  favour  to  Labeo 


_3 


\< 


;■!  .1, 


1] 


ao6 


AT  CO  [//IT. 


would  soon  have  ceased  ;  but  this  was  a  matter  of  mere  taste, 
and  it  was  chiefly  an  idea  of  the  ancient  republican  character  of 
the  office  of  tribune  which  induced  him  to  give  it  to  Labeo  in 
such  a  way. 

Labeo,  however,  without  caring  particularly  for  the  cause, 
rejoiced  in  his  advancement,  and  looked  forward  hopefully  to 
a  prosperous  career.  The  excesses  of  Nero,  which  rather  in- 
creased than  diminished,  troubled  him  very  little,  and  did  not 
interfere  in  the  slightest  degree  with  the  gratitude  which  he 
really  felt  toward  the  emperor. 

Tigellinus  had  at  first  shown  himself  quite  indifferent  to  the 
progress  of  Labeo  and  the  position  of  Cineas.  He  had  so 
much  confidence  in  his  own  power  to  influence  Nero,  by  work- 
ing on  his  baser  passioijis,  that  he  never  thought  it  possible  that 
aoy  other  things  could  have  any  influence  over  him.  With 
much  astonishment  he  saw  the  ascendency  which  Cineas  had 
gradually  gained  at  Court,  where  he  stood  as  one  of  the  pro- 
minent men,  and  yet  with  not  a  stain  on  his  character — too  rich 
to  wish  office,  and  too  content,  or  perhaps  too  proud,  to  seek 
for  honours.  Tigellinus  had  expected  for  a  long  time  that  his 
master  would  grow  weary  of  both  these  men ;  but  when  he 
found  that  Nero  did  not  grow  weary,  he  began  to  feel  alarm. 
Ke  did  not  altogether  understand  the  force  which  art  and 
literature  could  exert  over  the  mind  of  Nero.  For  the  emperor 
prided  himself  upon  his  fine  taste  and  his  delicate  sentiment. 
He  thought  that  a  great  poet  was  lost  to  the  world  when  he 
had  to  become  emperor.  This  was  one  of  the  very  strongest 
convictions  in  his  singular  and  contradictory  nature.  Tigellinus 
did  not  lay  sufficient  stress  on  this,  for  he  did  not  understand 
the  feeling.  With  Nero,  everything  connected  with  art,  litera- 
ture, or  philosophy,  amounted  to  a  hobby.  He  had  a  profound 
belief  in  his  own  genius  for  all  these,  and  in  his  excellence  in 
these  departments.  His  tendency  toward  these  feelings  began 
in  his  earliest  years,  when  he  was  innocent,  and  continued  till 


»> 


vv 


-  -  ^ 


AT  COURT. 


\ 
307 


that  hour  when  he  died,  laden  with  guilt,  and  manifested  itself, 
^ven  in  death,  as  the  strong  ruling  passion.  Seneca  possessed 
an  ascendency  over  him  for  years  solely  from  this  cause,  and 
lost  it  chiefly  from  his  own  lack  of  resources.  He  grew  old, 
and  no  longer  had  that  enthusiasm  in  these  pursuits  which  was 
needed. 

Cineas  more  than  filled  the  place  of  Seneca.  After  all,  even 
though  he  half  despised  the  pretensions  of  Nero,  he  respected 
them  because  they  were  sincere.  For  himself,  he  had  an  un- 
feigned love  for  the  beautiful,  wherever  found,  and  an  enthusi- 
astic devotion  to  all  that  was  elevated  in  art,  or  literature,  or 
philosophy.  That  enthusiasm  grew  stronger  as  years  passed  on, 
and  as  he  was  yet  young,  it  never  seemed  forced  or  unnatural. 
He  was  always  fresh  and  original.  His  criticisms  were  always 
sound  and  just.  Above  all,  he  was  Greek,  and  had  to  an  extra- 
ordinary degree  the  exquisite  taste,  the  subtle  intellect,  and  the 
venerable  genius  of  his  race.  He  had  a  wider  view  of  life,  and 
a  broader  intelligence,  than  Tigellinus,  and  from  the  first  under- 
stood perfectly  that  twofold  character  of  Nero,  which  was  also 
such  a  mystery  to  the  other.  He  knew  that  it  was  possible  for 
a  man  to  love  vice  and  literature  at  the  same  time,  and  to  be  at 
once  an  ardent  lover  of  philosophy  or  art,  and  a  monster  of 
cruelty.  He  knew  that  intellectual  refinement  could  exist  side 
by  side  with  moral  impurity,  and  only  saw  in  Nero  what  he  had 
already  seen,  to  a  less  degree,  in  other  men.  So  he  had  this 
advantage  all  along,  that  he  understood  the  man  with  whom  he 
had  to  deal,  and  thus  was  always  able  to  act  in  such  a  way  as 
to  preserve  his  influence. 

Tigellinus,  therefore,  became  exceedingly  jealous  of  this 
Athenian,  who  occupied  a  position  to  which  it  would  be  ridi- 
culous for  him  to  set  up  a  rivalry,  even  if  he  had  any  desire  to 
do  so.  He  tried  in  vain  to  weaken  Nero's  love  for  these  piur- 
suits  of  taste.  He  exhausted  all  his  ingenuity  in  devising  new 
pleasures,  but  the  only  result  was,  that  after  his  master  had  ob- 


308 


AT  COURT. 


:l     \ 


F    i* 


tamed  what  enjoyment  he  could,  a  reaction  came,  and  he  was 
sure  to  return  with  fresh  ardour  to  his  literary  employments. 
At  one  time  Tigellinus  began  to  fear  that  the  emperor  might 
give  himself  up  to  these,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  things, 
and  then  what  would  he  do  ?  His  occupation  would  be  gone, 
and  he  must  sink  at  once  into  his  original  obscurity. 

The  envy  of  Tigellinus  was  so  manifest  that  Nero  himselt 
noticed  it,  and  used  to  laugh  about  it  to  Cineas. 

**  This  man,"  said  he,  "  is  a  beast,  an  unmitigated  beast,  and 
thinks  all  other  men  are  beasts.  He  has  no  idea  of  the  charm 
which  intellectual  pursuits  can  exert.  He  would  stare  if  I  told 
him  that  I  enjoy  making  poetry  as  much  as  eating  at  one  of  his 
most  exquisite  banquets.  He  is  very  good  in  his  way,  and 
perhaps  in  that  way  indispensable ;  but  it  is  a  low  way  after  all, 
and  an  entirely  brutish  way.  Thank  the  gods,  the  cares  of 
state  have  never  shaken  my  old  love  for  literature.  If  I  had  to 
live  this  life  over,  I  should  choose  to  be  born  in  Athens,  and 
live  a  calm  philosophic  life. 

"  He  doesn't  understand  you,"  continued  Nero,  "  any  more 
than  me. '  He  thinks  you  a  rival.  How  ridiculous !  That 
would  be  as  though  a  god  should  wish  to  rival  a  dog ;  for  you, 
my  dear  philosopher,  live  in  thought  the  life  of  a  god — such  a 
life  as  seems  best  of  all  lives,  in  my  judgment ;  but  he  lives  as 
beasts  live,  without  any  higher  thought  than  the  gratification  of 
his  appetite.  To  pass  from  him  to  you,  is  like  rising  into  a 
higher  plane  of  life." 

Cineas  acknowledged  with  his  usual  graceful  modesty  the 
kindness  of  the  emperor  in  passing  upon  him  so  unmerited  a 
compliment,  but  had  too  much  dignity  to  utter  a  word  about 
his  enemy,  good  or  bad.  He  feared  nothing  from  him,  for  he 
felt  that  he  could  find  means  to  attract  Nero  for  some  years 
longer  if  he  chose. 

One  day,  however,  Cineas,  on  his  way  to  the  palace,  saw 
something  which  excited  some  uneasiness.     He  saw  Tigellinus 


*♦. 


y- 


more 

That 

you, 

such  a 

ives  as 

ion  of 

into  a 

ty  the 
rited  a 

about 
for  he 

years 


le,  saw 

[ellinus 


AT  COURT. 


ao9 


in  earnest  conversation  with  one  whose  face  was  well  known  to 
the  Athenian.     It  was  Hegio. 

It  was  not  at  all  strange  that  the  Syrian  should  have  found 
his  way  to  Tigellinus;  and,  indeed,  it  was  quite  probable,  as 
Cineas  felt  that  he  had  been  in  his  employ  ever  since  Labeo 
had  dismissed  him,  although  it  had  never  happened  until  this 
time  that  Cineas  had  seen  him.  All  this  Cineas  thought,  and 
still  the  sight  of  this  man  thus  in  the  employ,  as  it  seemed,  of 
his  enemy,  seemed  to  promise  future  trouble.  Tigellinus  had 
power  to  pull  down  the  loftiest.  In  his  train  was  a  crowd  of 
vile  informers  who  were  ready  to  swear  to  anything,  and  per- 
jure themselves  a  thousand  times  over  for  their  master's  sake. 
Cineas  knew  too  well  the  names  of  many  who  had  fallen 
beneath  the  power  of  this  miscreant ;  the  names  of  some  were 
whispered  about  among  the  people,  with  shudders  for  their  fate 
and  execrations  for  their  murderers.  The  sight  of  Hegio  made 
him  feel  as  though  the  danger  might  come  unexpectedly  upon 
himself  and  his  own  friends,  involving  them  all  in  one  common 
ruin. 

But  his  determination  was  soon  taken,  and  that  was  to  go  on 
as  he  was  doing.  Perhaps,  after  a  while,  Tigellinus  might  per- 
ceive that  his  position  did  not  affect  him  at  all,  and  desist  from 
his  efforts.    At  any  rate,  he  resolved  to  continue  as  before. 

He  now  made  himself  more  agreeable  than  ever  to  Nero, 
displayed  new  powers  which  he  had  never  exhibited  before,  and 
entered  more  largely  into  Nero's  peculiar  literary  tastes.  He 
made  some  rhymes  in  Greek,  which  filled  the  emperor  with 
delight,  for  he  saw  in  this  what  he  considered  as  a  reception  of 
his  own  idea  by  the  man  whose  genius  he  respected  most  He 
made  known  to  him  new  modes  of  metre,  and  new  secrets  in 
sculpture.  He  also  brought  him  a  lost  poem  of  Alcaeus,  which 
had  been  preserved  in  his  family,  and  presented  it  to  him  with 
great  parade. 

Nero's  intense  partiality  for  everything  Greek  made   him 


it 


ls''i 


U  ,ii 


•T© 


I 


<iw 


AT  COURT. 


\\ 


receive  all  these  new  efforts  of  Cineas  with  a  pleasure  equal  to 
that  of  a  child  who  received  some  toy  for  which  he  has  longed 
for  years.  Cineas  soon  found  out  that  his  position  was  more 
secure  than  ever.  In  fact,  he  became  so  indispensable  to  the 
emperor,  that  it  interfered  very  much  with  his  own  wishes  and 
movements,  and  made  him  regret  that  he  had  ever  entered  the 
palace.  He  began  to  fear  that  he  would  never  be  allowed  to 
leave  it. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Nero's  partiality  was  sincere,  and  also 
that  it  was  a  permanent  feeling,  from  the  simple  fact  that 
Cineas  stood  alone  without  a  rival.  No  other  man  combined 
the  same  attractions  in  one  and  the  same  person.  Nero  saw 
in  him  a  Greek  and  an  Athenian  of  the  noblest  lineage ;  a  man 
who  had  complete  control  over  all  Greek  art,  and  letters,  and 
philosophy ;  a  master  of  delicate  compliment — a  man  of  noble 
and  god-like  presence,  easy  in  manner,  delightful  in  conversa- 
tion, and,  above  all,  not  ambitious.  Cineas  had  absolutely  not 
one  thing  to  ask  from  Nero.  His  vast  wealth  and  his  historic 
name  made  him  content.  He  had  nothing  to  gain.  He  alone, 
o^  all  the  Court,  had  no  ulterior  designs.  This  was  more  than 
could  be  said  even  of  Seneca.  For  all  these  things,  and  above 
all  for  this  last,  which  he  himself  knew  perfectly  well,  and  often 
alluded  to,  Nero  would  not  willingly  lose  his  new  associate. 


\\ 


«    . 


r 


'] 


XX. 


|HOUGH  intent  upon  pleasing  the  emperor,  Cineas 
still  visited  occasionally  the  Christian  meetings, 
sometimes  seeing  here  the  great  apostle,  but  never 
seeking  any  closer  communication  with  him  than 
that  which  he  might  have  as  a  general  auditor.  This  may  have 
been  either  from  the  feeling  that  he  could  learn  nothing,  or,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  he  might  hear  too  much  and  be  convinced 
by  one  who  was  not  a  philosopher.  Whatever  the  cause  may 
have  been,  however,  he  continued  to  hold  aloof  from  the  one 
who  could  have  done  more  than  any  other  to  show  him  the 
way  to  that  Truth  which  he  sought. 

It  happened  once,  at  one  of  these  meetings,  that  he  was 
startled  at  seeing  a  well-known  face.  It  belonged  to  one  whom 
he  had  not  seen  for  years,  and  now  this  one  appeared  before 
him  as  a  leader  in  the  Christian  assembly. 

It  was  Philo  of  Crete. 

Very  much  changed  had  he  become.  When  Cineas  saw  him 
last  he  was  a  young  man,  but  now  his  hair  seemed  turned 
prematurely  gray.  His  old  expression  had  passed  from  his 
face.  Formerly  he  carried  in  his  countenance  that  which  bore 
witness  to  the  remorse  within  his  heart,  but  now  all  that  had 
departed,  and  the  pale,  serene  face  which  appeared  before 
Cineas  had  no  expression  save  one  of  peace. 

He  had  found  this  then  at  last,  the  peace  for  which  he  longed, 


aia 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


S  I 


\  ■ 


111 


•        -.J 


i  ?  1 


and  here  among  these  Christians.  This  fact  opened  before 
Cineas  thoughts  which  he  had  not  known  before.  The  master 
had  failed,  but  Philo  had  sat  at  the  feet  of  a  greater  Master. 

After  the  meeting  was  over,  Cineas  went  up  to  him.  Philo 
had  recognized  him  also,  and  eagerly  embraced  him.  For  some 
time  they  looked  in  silence  at  one  another. 

"  Have  you  been  long  in  Rome  1"  said  Cineas,  at  last. 

"  I  only  arrived  here  yesterday." 

Then  another  pause.     Philo  was  the  first  to  speak, — 

"  You  see  that  I  have  changed." 

*'  Yes,"  said  Cineas ;  "  you  are  an  old  man  before  your 
time." 

"  I  have  had  a  greater  and  a  better  change  than  that." 

"You  have  found,  then,  that  which  you  wished?"  asked 
Cineas,  with  anxious  sympathy. 

"  Yes,  noL.e  Cineas,"  said  Philo,  with  deep  solemnity,  "  I 
have  found  peace.  I  have  learned  a  wisdom  greater  than  that 
of  Socrates.  I  have  heard  One  who  said,  '  Come  unto  mc,  all 
ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.' 
I  have  come  to  him  and  he  has  given  rest." 

Philo  spoke  half  to  himself,  like  one  soliloquising.  Suddenly 
he  looked  earnestly  at  Cineas,  and  in  a  tremulous  voice  said, — 

"  Cineas,  you  know  my  story.  I  seek  over  the  world  for 
herr 

He  paused.  Cineas  bowed  his  head.  He  well  knew  to 
Nhom  Philo  alluded. 

"  I  have  never  found  her,"  continued  Philo  in  mournful 
tones ;  "  no,  never  so  much  as  a  trace  of  her.  I  try  to  work 
for  my  Lord,  but  my  work  is  only  half-hearted,  and  will  be  so 
till  I  find  her,  till  I  know  the  worst.  And  I  will  travel  all  over 
the  world  till  I  die,  but  I  will  seek  her." 

Philo  turned  away  and  buried  his  face  in  both  his  hands. 

**  O  Philo ! "  cried  Cineas,  seizing  his  arm  in  a  convulsive 
grasp,  "  you  have  come  to  the  end  of  your  search  1 " 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


\ 
ai3 


Philo  turned,  trembling  with  agitation,  and  regarded  Cineas 
with  an  awful  look. 

"  You  would  not  dare  to  speak  slightingly  !" 

"  She  is  here  in  Rome,"  said  Cineas. 

Philo  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  bowing  his  head,  and  clasping 
his  hands,  he  remained  motionless,  but  his  heart  poured  out 
all  its  love  and  gratitude  to  Him  who  had  thus  answered  the 
prayers,  and  the  longings,  and  the  search  of  the  weary  years. 

Then  he  rose,  and  clutching  the  arm  of  Cineas,  he  said,  in  a 
scarce  audible  whisper, — 

"  Take  me  to  her." 

And  the  two  hurried  away. 

Philo  said  not  a  word  as  he  went  along.  He  did  not  even 
ask  Cineas  how  he  knew  that  this  one  to  whom  he  was  leading 
him  was  the  right  person.  In  his  profound  faith  in  God,  he 
took  this  at  once  as  an  answer  to  prayer,  even  as  though  Cineas 
had  come  all  the  way  from  Greece  for  the  especial  purpose  of 
leading  him  to  her. 

He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  the  tight  grasp,  and  the  nervous 
trembling  of  his  arm,  showed  his  emotion.  He  was  overwhelmed 
by  the  suddenness  of  this  blessed  news,  and  in  the  multitude  of 
his  thoughts  he  could  not  speak. 

Cineas,  on  the  other  hand,  said  nothing,  but  thought  how  he 
might  best  have  the  news  broken  to  the  nurse.  He  knew  her 
feeble  state,  and  her  nervous  weakness.  A  great  shock,  whether 
of  joy  or  grief,  might  be  too  much  for  her.  This  was  his  dread. 
He  could  think  of  no  way,  and  therefore  determined  to  commit 
the  task  of  preparation  to  Helena. 

At  length  they  reached  the  house,  and  then  Cineas  spoke  for 
the  first  time  since  they  left,  and  told  Philo  his  plan.  He  took 
his  friend  up  to  a  room  where  he  might  remain  unmolested  for 
a  time,  and  then  went  to  his  sister. 

Helena  agreed  to  do  what  she  could,  but  she  felt  very  doubt- 
ful about  her  success.    She  feared  for  the  effect  of  this  sudden 


ai4 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


if 


}.  f 


i 


m. 


V  ^ 


V 


I'' 


joy.  The  nurse  had  indeed  recovered,  but  her  strength  at  best 
was  frail.  A  sudden  excitement  would  invariably  make  her 
heart  beat  so  violently  that  she  could  scarcely  breathe.  The 
grief  of  years,  and  many  sleepless  nights,  and  bitter  agony 
endured  in  those  lonely  vigils,  had  all  brought  her  to  this. 

And  now,  when  Helena  sought  the  nurse,  doubting  her 
power  to  break  the  news  fittingly,  and  trembling  for  the  result, 
she  showed  disturbance  in  her  face,  and  when  the  nurse  saw 
her  enter  the  room  she  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  As  for 
Helena,  she  could  think  of  no  roundabout  way  by  which  the 
news  could  be  skilfully  unfolded.  Not  knowing  any  good  way, 
she  concluded  to  say  whatever  came  uppermost. 

So,  in  as  calm  a  tone  as  she  could  use,  she  said  :  '*  Cineas 
has  heard  something  to-day  which  he  wished  me  to  tell  you  " — 

No  sooner  had  Helena  said  this  than  she  repented,  and 
stopping  short,  she  looked  at  the.  nurse,  and  felt  frightened  at 
the  effect  of  these  simple  words. 

For  the  nurse  leaned  back  in  her  seat,  and  stared  fixedly  at 
Helena  with  a  strange,  wild  expression,  and  her  heart  beat  with 
fierce,  fast  bounds,  so  that  her  whole  frame  was  shaken. 

"  He  saw  a  man  in  the  city,"  said  Helena,  with  a  trembling 
voice,  and  her  ^ves  filled  with  tears,  "  and  this  man  told  him 
something  whici:  he  wished  you  to  know.  But,  oh,  my  dearest, 
why  do  you  tremble  so  1  Be  calm !  Can  you  not  come  to 
yourself?" 

And  Helena  caught  the  nurse  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  her 
pale,  white  face,  and  implored  her  to  be  calm, 

"  Ah,  dearest,"  said  the  nurse,  in  a  faint  voice,  "  I  am  not 
able  to  control  my  feelings.  I  know  well  what  you  have  to 
tell  about.  There  is  only  one  kind  of  message  which  Cineas 
would  send  to  me.  It  is  of  him.  But  tell  it.  Don't  fear  for 
me.  Whether  I  am  calm  or  not  is  no  matter.  I  can  bear  it. 
You  came  to  tell  me  of  his  death.  He  is  gone,  and  I  will  not 
see  him  again  in  this  life." 


I-I 


r  ^ 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


aiS 


t  best 
e  her 

The      ^ 
agony 

g  her 
result; 
;e  saw 
\s  for 
ch  the 
d  way, 

Cineas 
rou  "— 
;d,  and 
ened  at 

•«dly  at 
:at  with 

mbling 
d  him 
earest, 

ome  to 

sed  her 

am  not 
lave  to 

Cineas 
fear  for 

bear  it. 
will  not 


"  No,"  said  Helena. 

"No!    Is  it  not  of  him  r'  i    ' 

"  Yes." 

"  And  v/hat  else  have  you  to  tell  1  Oh,  1  pray  you,  do  not 
keep  me  in  suspense." 

"  He  is  not  dead." 

"  He — is — not — dead  ? "  repeated  the  nurse,  rousing  herself, 
and  looking  at  Helena  with  a  strange,  supplicating  glance. 
"  Not  dead  ?  And  you  came  to  tell  me  this  ?  And  this  man 
that  you  speak  of,  where  is  he  1    Who  is  he  ] " 

"  You  can  see  him,  and  ask  him  yourself.  But,  oh,  be 
calm."    But  the  nurse  trembled  more  than  ever. 

"  Oh,  has  he  been  spared  1  Is  he  alive  1  And  where  ?  And 
who  can  bring  him  to  his  mother]  Where  can  I  go  to  see 
him  before  I  die  ?  Not  much  longer  can  I  live.  Did  he  send 
a  message  1  Did  he  ever  mention  my  name  ]  Is  he  near  me, 
or  far  away  1  Is  he  too  far  to  coine  to  me  before  I  die  % 
Oh,  speak,  and  do  not  look  at  me  so  strangely.  What  do 
you  mean  by  those  tears?  If  he  is  not  dead,  why  do  you 
weep  1" 

"  Because — because,"  said  Helena,  "  I  fear  for  you.  You 
tremble  so.     You  cannot  bear  the  shock." 

"  The  shock  !  What  shock  ]  To  hear  that  my  boy  lives  % 
Ah,  what  have  you  to  say  1  What  terrible  thing  remains  * 
Have  I  not  borne  the  worst — the  worst  %  Can  anything  worse 
remain?" 

And  a  deep  terror  showed  itself  in  the  face  of  the  nurse,  and 
she  sat  erect  and  rigid,  with  clasped  hands,  fearing  to  hear  of 
some  new  thing. 

"  Oh,  my  dearest.  There  is  nothing  like  that.  I  fear  that 
you  will  be  killed,  not  by  terror,  but  by  joy." 

"Joy!" 

The  nurse  clutched  Helena's  arm,  and  tried  to  speak,  but 
could  not. 


m 


ft, 

It:.-' 


i'  ■■>■ 


1 1 

{     1, 


m 


^li  I 


216 


7W^  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


"  He  is  a  Christian.  He  preaches  Christ.  He  goes  ovei 
the  world  searching  after  you.     Can  you  bear  that  joy  1" 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot  bear  it ! "  cried  the  nurse  ;  and  she  fell 
down  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  burst  into  a  torrent 
of  tears.  And  there  Helena  stood,  wringing  her  hands,  and 
looking  at  the  venerable  form  of  her  friend  as  it  was  shaken 
by  convulsive  sobs,  and  reproaching  herself  incessantly.  Yet 
she  knew  not  how  else  she  could  have  done.  But  she  did  not 
know  how  one  so  feeble  could  survive  all  this.  She  hastened 
to  bring  it  all  to  an  end. 

"  Oh,"  cried  she,  twining  her  arms  about  the  nurse's  prostrate 
form,  "  what  can  I  say  1  Rouse  yourself  Shall  I  tell  you  all  1 
Win  not  the  joy  kill  you  1 " 

"  More  joy,"  said  tl^e  nurse,  raising  herself,  and  still  trem- 
bling. "Morel  What!  morel  What  more  can  remain?  Is 
it  that  I  shall  see  him  1 " 

"  It  is,"  said  Helena.     "  You  shall  see  him,  and  soon." 

"  Oh,  I  know  it  all.  And  you  have  been  trying  to  break  it 
to  me.  He  is  in  Rome.  He  knows  that  I  am  here.  He  is 
coming  to  see  me.  And  I  shall  see  him, — my  boy,  my  child, 
my  darhng,  my  precious  son  !  O  diarest  mistress  !  bring  him 
soon.  If  I  am  to  be  killed,  it  will  be  by  delay.  Nothing  can 
save  me  but  his  quick  arrival.  Oh,  bring  me  my  boy.  Where 
can  I  find  himi  I  will  go  after  him.  Tell  me  where  my 
boy  is." 

And  the  nurse  clung  to  Helena's  arm,  and  moaned  about  her 
boy,  with  a  strange  wild  longing — a  deep  yearning  which  words 
are  feeble  to  express — a  hunger  of  maternal  love,  all  of  which 
showed  what  a  passion  burned  beneath  this  calm  exterior. 
And  now  this  passion  all  burst  forth  and  blazed  up  above  all 
restraint,  consuming  all  other  feelings. 

But  Helena  was  spared  any  further  delay.  As  the  nurse 
spoke  and  prayed,  a  sob  was  heard,  and  a  man  rushed  into  the 
room  ar.vi  caught  her  in  his  arms.     Instantly,  in  spite  of  the 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


217 


ravages  of  sorrow  and  of  time — in  spite  of  gray  hairs,  as  gray 
as  her  own — in  spite  of  the  transformation  which  had  been 
wrought  in  that  face  by  the  remorse  of  years,  succeeded  by  the 
peace  that  Christ  had  given — in  spite  of  all  these  things,  the 
mother  recognized  the  lineaments  of  the  son  ;  and  it  was  with  a 
cry  that  expressed  the  longing  and  the  desire  of  years,  that 
told  of  hope  deferred  at  last  satisfied,  and  agony  turned  to  joy, 
and  sorrow  to  ecstasy, — it  was  with  such  a  cry  as  this — memorable 
to  Helena,  in  whose  ears  it  rang  long  afterwards — that  the  nurse 
flung  herself  upon  the  heart  of  her  son,  and  wept  there,  and 
moaned  inarticulate  words,  half  of  endearment,  half  of  prayer. 

The  son  gently  raised  his  mother  in  his  arms  and  lifted  her 
to  a  couch,  where  he  sat  by  her  side,  still  straining  her  to  his 
heart,  accompanying  her  agitation  with  an  emotion  as  deep  and 
as  harassing.  Strange  t'lat  overpowering  joy  should  be  a  thing 
almost  terrible ! 

Helena  saw  all  this,  and  left  the  room  to  these  two,  for 
their  happiness  was  a  holy  thing,  in  which  no  other  might  in- 
trude. Yet  she  feared  none  the  less  for  the  result.  Could  that 
feeble  nurse  sustain  the  effect  of  such  a  .shock  1  She  feared, 
and  tried  to  hope,  but  cculd  not. 

She  sought  Cineas,  and  in  her  deep  anxiety  told  him  all,  and 
his  grave  face  and  apprehension  confirmed  her  fears. 

Hours  passed  away,  yet  not  a  sound  was  heard.  Both 
Helena  and  Cineas  were  too  anxious  to  retire  to  rest.  They 
waited  in  silence,  looking  at  one  another,  or  on  the  floor,  won- 
dering what  those  hours  might  bring  forth,  fearing  too,  and 
while  wishing  an  end  to  come  to  suspense  yet  dreadi'-ii'  that 
end.  To  Helena  there  was  '.he  worst  fear,  for  she  had  grown 
to  love  the  nurse  like  a  mother. 

At  length  day  began  to  dawn,  and  Helena,  unable  any  longer 
to  endure  this  suspense,  thought  herself  justified  in  entering  the 
room  once  more.  She  stole  in  quietly,  and  went  slowly  up  to 
the  couch. 


2l8 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


r 


There  Philo  was  seated,  with  his  mother  half  reclining  against 
him,  holding  both  his  hands  tightly,  and  looking  up  into  his 
face  with  a  rapt  expression.  But  the  face  that  evinced  rapture 
had  changed  in  its  nature  since  Helena  had  left,  and  as  she 
looked  her  heart  stood  still.  That  face,  always  emaciated,  had 
now  become  thinner  and  sharper,  and  there  was  a  light  in  her 
eyes  which  seemed  unearthly.  Her  lips  were  bloodless,  and 
dark  circles  were  around  her  eyes. 

The  form  of  Helena  stooping  over  her,  roused  her,  and  drew 
her  attention  for  a  moment  from  her  son. 

"  O  my  loved  mistress,"  she  said  in  a  faint,  hollow  voice,  that 
seemed  not  like  her  own.  "  He  loves  me — my  boy — my  child 
— my  darling.  He  says  he  has  always  loved  me.  He  says  he 
has  been  searching  after  me  for  years ;  yes,  years." 

Helena  stooped  down  with  tearful  eyes,  and  kissed  the 
nurse's  forehead.  She  shuddered,  for  that  forehead  was  cold 
and  damp. 

Philo  said  not  a  word,  but  gazed  with  all  his  soul  on  his 
mollier,  but  there  was  a  sadness  in  his  face  which  looked  like  a 
foreboding  of  something  different  from  happiness.  He  noticed 
the  shudder  of  Helena,  and  looked  up,  and  mournfully  shook 
his  head. 

"  He  says  he  loves  me,"  said  the  nurse,  faintly,  "  and  that 
he  will  never,  never  leave  me  again — till  I  die." 

"  Till  you  die,"  sighed  Helena,  half  unconsciously  repeating 
her  words. 

Philo  bowed  down  his  head  low  over  his  mother.  Ah,  poor, 
weary,  worn  sufferer !  faintly  the  breath  c?me  and  went,  and 
the  wild  throbbing  of  that  aching  heart  had  changed  to  a  fainter 
pulsation,  that  grew  fainter  yet  faster  as  the  time  passed  by. 

"  Mother  dearest,"  said  Philo  at  last,  "  will  you  not  try  and 
sleep  now  ?  You  are  so  weak.  I  have  caused  you  suffering 
through  your  life,  and  now  I  bring  you  a  worse  pang  by  my 
return." 


r 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


219 


poor, 

It,  and 

ainter 

ry  and 
ffering 
by  my 


►  "  Suffering  1 "  said  the  nurse.  "  Do  not  reproach  yourself, 
my  child ;  I  have  had  dear  friends,  and  here  is  one  who  of  all 
dear  ones  is  the  most  dear." 

Helena  then  tried  to  urge  her  to  take  rest  and  try  and  sleep. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said.  *'  Let  me  alone  now.  When  sleep 
comes  I  will  welcome  it,  but  I  cannot  sleep  yet.  Let  me  be 
with  my  boy.  For  I  have  mourned  him  for  years  as  one  dead, 
and  he  comes  to  me  like  one  from  the  dead.  And  he  is  mine 
again,  as  when  I  held  him  a  little  child  to  my  heart." 

Tears  flowed  faster  from  Helena's  eyes.  Could  not  she  her- 
self understand  all  that  mother's  love  and  longing  ]  She  well 
could.  But  she  wept,  for  she  feared  the  end  of  all  this.  Now 
the  time  passed,  and  day  grew  brighter,  and  already  there  was 
a  stir  in  the  household.  The  nurse  seemed  to  grow  fainter,  but 
still  she  held  the  hands  of  her  son. 

"  Blessed  be  He,"  she  said  at  last,  '*  who  has  heard  all  my 
prayers,  and  answered  them  all ;  who  has  promised  heaven,  and 
kept  his  promise,  and  made  my  heaven  begin  on  earth." 

"  I  shall  go  back  to  sorrow  never  again,"  she  continued,  after 
a  pause ;  "  never  again.  I  shall  go  on  in  joy.  I  shall  pass 
from  this  happiness  to  a  higher. 

"  I  shall  go  from  my  son  to  my  Saviour ;  from  earth  to 
heaven." 

Philo  took  her  in  his  arms  with  a  passionate  sob,  and  drew 
her  nearer  to  himself  Helena  took  her  thin  hands  and  chafed 
them.  Their  icy  coldness  sent  a  chill  of  fear  through  all  her 
being.     She  saw  what  the  end  might  be. 

But  the  nurse  lay  without  heeding  them,  still  looking  up,  with 
her  longing  eyes,  at  her  son's  face,  as  though  that  longing  could 
never  be  satisfied. 

"  Will  you  not  try  and  sleep,  mother  ? "  said  Philo  in  a  voice 
of  despair. 

"  Sleep  will  come  in  its  own  time,"  said  the  nurse.  "  Do  not 
try  and  force  it  on  me.    Do  not  leave  me.  Stay  by  me.    Hold  me 


220 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON, 


a  ii 


i  t 


I  4 


?  i 


fast,  my  own ;  let  me  cling  to  your  hand.  Let  my  eyes  devoui 
your  face — 0  face  of  my  son  !  my  long  lost !  my  loved  ! " 

Her  lips  murmured  words  whicii  meant  love,  and  that 
mother's  heart,  in  its  deathless  love,  had  all  its  feelings  fixed 
on  her  son.  So,  with  her  lips  murmuring  words  that  were  not 
heard,  but  none  the  less  understood — so  she  lay  till  at  last 
sleep  did  come,  a  light,  restless  sleep,  in  which  she  waked  at 
the  slightest  effort  to  move  her. 

But  the  sleep  grew  deeper,  and  Philo  at  length  disengaged 
himself,  and  placed  her  in  an  easier  position.  Then  he  knelt 
by  her  side  and  held  her  hands,  for  so  she  had  charged  him, 
'md  her  command  was  holy.  He  held  her  hands,  and  he 
kneeled  by  her  side,  watching  every  breath,  with  thoughts 
rushing  through  his  mi^d  and  memories  coming  before  him — 
such  thoughts  as  break  the  heart,  such  memories  as  drive  men 
mad. 

What  could  Helena  do  ?  She  could  do  nothing.  Her  only 
feeling  was  one  of  fear.  What  hope  could  she  have  that  this 
poor  worn-out  frame  might  ever  survive  all  this  1  Never  before 
had  she  known  what  feeling  animated  this  sorrowing  mother. 
Now  she  saw  something  which  threw  a  new  light  over  the  past, 
and  made  her  understand  the  full  measure  of  that  sorrow  which 
arose  out  of  such  love.  Stricken  heart !  could  she  wish  that  it 
might  have  any  other  lot  than  an  entrance  into  eternal  rest  t 

Helena  again  left  the  room,  but  remained  near,  where  she 
could  hear  the  slightest  sound,  and  waited  with  the  feeling  of 
one  that  waits  for  his  doom.  For  the  boding  fear  of  her  heart 
could  not  now  be  banished.  As  the  hours  passed  it  grew 
stronger. 

At  last  there  came  a  summons. 

It  came  piercingly,  fearfully. 

It  was  a  shriek  of  despair,  the  cry  of  a  strong  man  in  his 
agony ;  and  Helena  rushed  back  once  more  and  saw  it  all 

Yes,  the  end  had  indeed  come. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SOK. 


231 


The  nurse  lay  with  her  face  formed  into  an  expression  of 
heavenly  peace  and  calm,  with  a  radiant  smile ;  but  the  smile 
was  stony,  and  the  calm  face  was  fixed.  Over  her  hung  Philo, 
moaning  for  her,  and  crying  out, — "  O  mother  1  My  mother ! 
You  cannot,  you  will  not  leave  me !  O  my  mother,  I  have 
killed  you!" 

All  was  over.  The  pure  spirit  had  passed  away.  Yes,  as 
she  once  said,  "Rest  had  come  at  last;"  and  all  the  sorrow, 
and  all  the  sighing,  that  in  her  life  had  come  to  her  in  so  large 
measure,  had  now  been  left  behind  with  that  inanimate  form, 
and  the  smile  on  the  face  remained  to  show  that  if  she  had  left 
her  son  she  had  gone  to  her  Saviour,  and  earth  had  been  ex- 
changed for  heaven. 

For  she  had  known  that  she  was  dying,  and  so  she  had 
crowded  all  life  into  those  last  moments,  and  all  the  love  that 
she  had  felt  for  years.  She  had  lavished  it  all  upon  her  son, 
and  she  knew  that  this  was  the  last  of  earth,  and  she  blessed 
God  that  he  had  made  it  so  sweet. 

All  this  Helena  learned  afterward  from  Philo,  but  not  now. 

For  now  he  knelt  there  crushed  and  overwhelmed,  forgetting 
himself,  forgetting  his  Christian  faith,  mindful  only  of  this  one 
great  grief,  and  in  his  despair  thinking  only  of  this,  that  he  had 
killed  her. 

For  this  man  had  learned  the  way  of  pardon,  and  had  found 
peace  for  his  troubled  conscience;  but,  nevertheless,  there 
remained  the  memory  of  his  fearful  sin,  which  no  thought  of 
pardon  could  so  allay  but  that  it  created  self-reproach  and 
remorse,  that  were  always  ready  to  assail  him.  Now,  over  the 
dead  form  of  that  mother,  so  wronged  and  so  loved,  there 
came  a  double  pang — the  thought  of  his  own  sin,  and  the 
agony  of  bereavement.  It  was  this  that  crushed  him,  and  shut 
out  all  consolation  from  his  heart.  Thus  a  great  sin  will 
always  bring  great  remorse.  The  consciousness  of  pardon 
may  quell  that  remorse  for  a  time,  but  the  memory  of  the  past 


m 


222 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SOM 


IT  Fit 


can  never  die;  and  so  long  as  this  life  lasts,  will  the  remem- 
brance of  crime  afflict  the  soul. 

"  I  have  killed  her,"  moaned  Philo ;  and  this  was  his  only 
thought.  And  so  he  had,  for  was  there  ever  a  worse  crime 
than  his  1  All  that  he  might  suffer  now  was  as  nothing  when 
compared  with  the  suffering  that  he  had  inflicted  on  her.  Yes, 
he  had  killed  her,  and  through  life  he  would  have  to  carry  this 
recollection. 

Sadly  and  wearily  Helena  went  away  to  seek  some  rest  and 
sleep,  but  the  son  still  knelt  beside  his  mother.  He  had  closed 
her  eyes.  What  thoughts  had  he  as  he  knelt  there  ]  Did  he 
think  of  all  the  years  of  agony  which  nad  been  hers;  those 
years  which  she  in  her  deep  love  had  tried  to  make  him  believe 
were  happy  ones,  passed  in  the  society  of  kind  and  sympa- 
thizing friends ;  or  did  he  think  rather  of  that  deep  love  that 
lived  in  her  latest  glance,  and  spoke  forth  in  her  last  breath  1 
Whatever  he  thought  of,  it  could  be  nothing  less  to  him  than 
utter  anguish.  For  the  love  which  she  expressed,  with  all  its 
comfort,  brought  a  sting  with  it.  This  was  the  love  that  he 
had  outraged.  Ay,  let  him  kneel,  and  cry ;  let  his  soul  wrestle 
with  the  woe  of  that  bereavement.  In  his  deepest  sorrow  he 
will  only  feel  a  part  of  that  which  she  had  to  endure  through 
the  long  years  of  that  slavery  to  which  he  had  doomed  her. 

The  days  passed,  and  the  time  came  when  she  must  be 
buried.  The  Christian  did  not  commit  the  body  of  his  dead 
to  the  flames.  Inspired  by  the  hope  of  the  resurrection,  he 
chose  rather  to  place  it  in  the  tomb.  He  was  unwilling  to 
reduce  it  to  ashes,  and  thought  even  the  funeral  flames  a  dis- 
honour to  that  body  which  he  considered  the  temple  of  God. 

There  was  a  place  which  the  Christians  of  Rome  had  chosen 
for  the  burial  of  their  dead,  which  seemed  to  have  been  arranged 
by  Providence  for  this  especial  purpose.  In  so  crowded  a  city 
as  Rome,  where  the  houses  ran  out  far  into  the  country,  it  was 
not  easy  to  find  a  place  which  could  be  used  for  burial.     The 


i 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


223 


poor  were  interred  without  the  Esquiline  gate.  The  rich  burned 
the  bodies  of  their  dead,  and  sometimes  buried  them,  but  they 
had  private  tombs.  For  the  Christians,  who  were  poor,  and 
could  not  afford  to  have  private  burial-places,  the  Esquiline 
field  seemed  abhoirent,  partly  from  the  careless  way  in  which 
the  bodies  were  interred,  partly  from  the  crowded  state  of  the 
field.  A  higher  motive  also  made  them  turn  away  from  this 
public  burial-place.  They  looked  forward  always  to  the  resur- 
rection, and  awaited  the  time  when  the  body  should  rise  at  the 
sound  of  the  last  trump.  They,  therefore,  chose  rather  some 
place  for  their  own  exclusive  use,  as  though  even  in  death  they 
wished  to  come  out  from  among  the  heathen  and  be  separate. 

And  now  to  this  little  community,  with  these  feelings  and 
desires,  there  appeared  a  place  which  offered  them  all  that  they 
wanted — a  place  destined  in  after-ages  to  be  filled  with  Chris- 
tian dead,  and  sometimes  also,  in  seasons  of  persecution,  with 
Christian  living,  who  should  seek  safety  there,  till  in  the  end  it 
should  become  a  vast  Christian  Necropolis,  a  wonder  to  later 
times. 

They  found  it  not  outside  of  the  city,  but  beneath  it. 

For  ages  the  Romans  had  obtained  from  that  quarter  the 
sand  which  they  used  for  cement.  There  were  strata  of  this 
sand,  and  also  of  hard  volcanic  rock;  but,  in  addition  to  this, 
there  was  a  vast  extent  composed  of  soft  porous  rock,  which 
was  very  easily  excavated.  Passages  had  already  been  cut 
through  this  to  facilitate  the  conveyance  of  the  cement,  and  it 
was  in  these  subterranean  places  that  the  Christians  found  a 
place  for  their  dead. 

A  sad  procession  moved  from  the  house  of  Labeo,  carrying 
the  body  of  the  nurse  to  her  last  place  of  rest.  They  traversed 
a  large  part  of  the  city,  and  went  out  of  the  Porta  Capena, 
down  the  Appian  Way.  Here,  on  either  side,  arose  the  tombs 
of  the  great  families  of  Rome,  prominent  among  all  the  mauso- 
leum of  Caecilia  Metella. 


I 


934 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


Not  far  from  this,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  there 
was  a  rude  shed,  under  which  was  an  opening,  with  steps  that 
led  down  under-ground.  Around  this  opening  were  heaps  of 
sand,  and  men  were  there,  whose  pallid  faces  showed  that  they 
were  the  fossors  who  excavated  the  sand  below.  Down  this 
descent  the  funeral  procession  passed,  and  when  they  had 
reached  the  bottom  they  lighted  their  torches,  and  a  man  who 
seemed  familiar  with  the  place  led  them  along. 

This  man  led  the  way  with  an  unhesitating  step,  and  the  rest 
followed.  It  was  a  wild,  weird  scene.  The  passage  was  about 
seven  feet  high,  and  not  more  than  four  feet  wide.  The  walls 
on  either  side  were  rough,  and  bore  the  marks  of  excavating 
tools.  The  torcher  served  to  illumine  the  scene  but  faintly. 
The  darkness  that  opened  before  them  was  intense. 

At  length  they  came  to  a  place  where  the  walls  were  covered 
with  tablets.  Here  the  Christian  graves  began.  These  tablets 
bore  their  simple  epitaphs.  Often  these  epitaphs  were  rudely 
cut  and  badly  spelled,  but  in  a  few  the  lettering  and  the 
expression  were  more  elegant.  In  them  all,  however,  the  senti- 
ment was  the  same — a  sentiment  which  showed  hope,  and 
faith,  and  peace.     For  on  them  all  was  this  one  word — Peace. 


EUSBBIA  IN  THE  PsACB  OP  ChRIST. 

Valbkia  slbbps  in  Pbacb. 

CONSTANTIA  IN  PbACE. 

Laurinia,  sweetbr  than  Honby,  slbbfs  in  Feacb. 

DOMITIANUS,  AN  INNOCENT  SoUL,  SLEEPS  IN  PeACR. 


Such  epitaphs  as  these  appeared  on  both  sides  as  the  pro- 
cession moved  slowly  along,  and  spoke  in  the  most  expressive 
manner  of  that  peace  that  passeth  understanding,  which  the 
gospel  of  Christ  gives,  not  in  life  only,  but  even  in  the  mystery 
of  death. 

At  last  they  came  to  a  place  where  there  was  a  wider  area. 
There  was  something  like  a  small  chamber,  where  the  roof  rose 
to  a  height  of  about  fifteen  feet,  and  the  floor  was  about  twenty 


I 


THE  RETUR!^  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


93$ 


feet  in  diameter.     Here  the  bearers  laid  down  the  bier,  and  all 
stood  in  silence.  ,>*^ 

Julius  was  there,  for  he  had  now  identified  himself  to  a  great 
extent  with  the  Christians.  Cineas  also  was  there,  for  he  had 
come  to  see  the  last  resting-place  of  one  in  whom  he  had  taken 
such  a  deep  interest.  Philo,  too,  was  there,  still  crushed  by 
his  grief,  and  kneeling  in  his  speechless  woe  by  the  side  of 
the  bier. 

But  there  was  another  there,  in  whose  face  a  lofty  enthusiasm 
had  driven  away  all  gloom.  He  could  sympathize  with  the 
sorrow  of  the  mourner,  but  he  saw  no  cause  to  weep  for  the 
dead.  He  had  learned  something  of  that  mystery  of  death 
which  enabled  him  to  triumph  over  its  terrors,  and  he  could 
speak  to  others  words  which  imparted  to  them  his  own  high 
confidence.  To  him  death  was  nothing  that  was  to  be  feared. 
He  lived  a  life  which  made  him  brave  its  worst  terrors  con 
tinually.  He  knew  that  it  was  but  the  dawn  of  another  life 
and  not  merely  the  end  of  this,  and  thought  that  no  Chris- 
tian should  dread  that  from  which  Christ  had  taken  all 
terror. 

Here,  then,  amid  the  gloom  of  a  subterranean  chamber 
which  was  only  lighted  by  the  red  glow  of  torches,  the  little 
company  gathered  around  the  dead  and  listened  to  the  words 
of  Paul. 

It  was  amid  the  gloom  of  this  under-world  that  Paul  lifted 
up  his  voice  in  prayer,  and  the  words  that  were  spoken  in  that 
prayer  were  such  as  well  suited  the  place,  for  they  were  the  cry 
of  one  calling  "  out  of  the  depths  "  upon  that  One  who  sat  en- 
throned in  the  Highest,  but  ever  listening — of  one  who  turned 
from  the  darkness  of  earth,  typified  in  these  sombre  vaults,  to 
where  in  heaven  there  shone  the  light  of  that  hope  which  is  full 
of  immortality.  This  man  who  prayed  here  was  one  who  told 
others  to  pray  without  ceasing;  prayer  with  him  was  the  breath 
of  his  life,  and  he  who  thus  prayed  for  himself  knew  best  how 

(183)  IS 


1 

pl 

i'V 

d 

1 

ii  ■!■''; 

\^ 

!i;« 

11 

!| 

i:?|l 

m 

It- 


1 

(l. 

M; 

If 

1 

336 


THR  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


to  pray  for  others.  Yet  tliis  prayer  of  his  was  not  for  the  dead, 
but  for  the  living. 

Now  the  voice  of  prayer  ceased,  and  all  stood  in  deep  silence 
round  the  form  of  the  departed.  The  grief  of  Philo  was  com- 
municated to  these  tender,  these  sympathetic  hearts.  They 
mingled  their  tears  with  his. 

Rut  now,  amid  the  silence,  there  arose  a  strain  so  sweet  and 
so  sad,  that  it  thrilled  through  all  the  being  of  Cineas,  and  rang 
in  his  memory  afterward  for  many  a  long  year. 

The  early  Christians  had  at  first  come  out  from  among  the 
Jews,  and  in  their  meetings  they  preserved  the  traditions  of  the 
synagogue.  The  chants  of  old  psalms  were  prominent  among 
these.  The  Gentile  Christians  adopted  these  old  Jewish  forms, 
and  the  chant  lived  side  by  side  with  the  hymn. 

But  the  chant  that  arose  now  sounded  forth  words  to  which 
the  Christian  alone  could  attach  any  meaning.  To  the  Jew  in 
his  synagogue  they  had  none.  To  the  Christian  they  meant 
everything ;  they  were  divine  words,  which  carried  within  them 
a  lofty  consolation  at  all  times;  but  now,  over  the  form  of  the 
dead,  and  among  the  graves  of  the  departed,  they  gave  triumph 
to  the  soul. 

"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth, 
And  that  he  shall  stand,  at  the  latter  day,  upon  this  earth : 
And  though  after  my  skin,  worms  destroy  my  body, 
Vet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see  God ; 
Whom  I  shall  see  for  myself. 
And  mine  eyes  shall  behold,  and  not  another; 
Though  my  veins  be  consumed  within  me." 

Down  through  the  long  vaulted  passages  the  sound  was 
borne,  passing  on,  in  its  wild  cadences,  till  it  died  out  in  hollow 
murmurs  far  away.  And  the  hope,  and  the  solemn  exultation 
of  that  song  seemed  to  convey  a  new  feeling  into  all  the 
hearers.  Cineas  bowed  his  head,  and  yielded  himself  up  to  the 
emotion  that  overpowered  all.  He  knew  to  whom  and  to  what 
that  song  referred.      The  Redeemer,  the  resurrection,  these 


THE  RETURiV  OF  Till-   PRODIGAL  SON. 


827 


were  its  themes  \  and  he  saw  something  which  made  death  lose 
its  terrors.  -'  *^ 

And  there,  on  his  knees,  Philo  felt  a  new  rush  of  feeling, 
which  broke  in  upon  his  remorse  and  his  despair.  He  raised 
his  head  and  looked  upward,  with  streaming  eyes;  but  an  ex« 
pression  of  hope  v/as  on  his  face,  and  they  all  knew  that  his 
soul's  agony  iiad  at  last  been  aonquered  by  faith. 

Next  to  redemption,  the  great  doctrine  that  attracted  the 
Christian  of  this  time  was  that  of  the  resurrection.  He  awaited 
from  day  to  day  the  coming  of  the  Lord.  He  buried  his  dead, 
and  knew  that  at  the  last  trump  they  would  rise  again.  As  the 
Lord  himself  had  risen,  so  would  all  his  followers.  For  this  he 
glorified  God,  and  in  this  he  exulted. 

In  this  doctrine  Paul  also  rejoiced,  and  preached  it  every- 
where. It  was,  in  his  eyes,  one  of  the  grandest  facts  in 
Christianity.  It  gave  something  for  the  strong  reliance  of  the 
soul.  Yet  with  all  this  he  did  not  teach  that  the  soul  should 
sleep  till  this  resurrection,  or  that  it  could  not  exist  without  the 
body. 

While  he  cherished  so  ardently  this  grand  doctrme,  and  laid 
so  much  stress  on  the  resurrection,  he  had  no  idea  that  the  soul, 
after  death,  could  pass  into  even  a  temporary  oblivion.  For 
he  habitually  spoke  of  his  desire  to  depart  and  be  with  Christ, 
knowing  that  his  departure  from  this  world  would  be  an  im- 
mediate entrance  into  the  next;  and  knowing,  too,  as  he  himself 
said,  that  to  be  absent  from  the  body  was  to  be  present  with 
the  Lord.  Best  of  all,  he  knew  it  from  his  own  high  experience, 
on  that  time  when  he  had  been  caught  up  into  the  unutterable 
glories  of  the  world  of  light. 

And  such  things  he  spoke  at  this  time,  and  his  words  brought 
new  comfort  to  the  bereaved  son. 

It  was  with  such  words  in  their  ears,  and  such  thoughts  in 
their  hearts,  that  the  little  company  lifted  the  body  of  the  de- 
parted into  her  last  resting-place. 


228 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


lliii 


It  was  Philo  whose  hands  arranged  those  dear  remains,  whose 
eyes  took  the  last  look,  and  who  for  the  last  time  pressed  her 
cold  forehead  with  his  lips.  He  lifted  up  the  tablet  which  shut 
in  the  opening  of  the  narrow  cell,  and  on  that  tablet  there  were 
the  following  words : — 

"  In  Christ— Pkack. 

"  The  sorrow  of  Clymenr  on  earth  led  to  everlasting  bliss  in  heaven.     Hbb 
SON  Philo  set  up  this  stone  in  tears." 


\  \ 


XXI. 


^l^t  '§mM. 


|FTER  that  solemn  burial  scene,  Julius  made  up  his 
mind  to  delay  no  longer  about  a  step  which  he  had 
purposed  taking  for  some  time. 

"  Why  should  I  not  join  them  at  once  ? "  said  he 
to  Cineas.  "  All  my  sympathies  are  with  them,  and  have  been 
now  for  a  long  time.  I  have  no  desires  or  tastes  anywhere  else. 
The  meek  lives  and  the  mutual  affection  of  these  men  would 
affect  me  even  if  there  were  nothing  more ;  even  if  there  were 
no  high  aim  after  eternal  life,  which  pervades  all  tlieir  thoughts, 
and  makes  this  life  seem  only  a  short  and  temporary  stay. 

"And  now  I  find  that  this  aim  is  my  own  chief  desire.  I  wish 
to  secure  the  same  immortality,  and,  besides,  that  immortal  life  in 
which  they  believe — an  immortality  of  happiness  and  of  love. 

"  Cineas,  I  long  and  yearn  to  be  one  of  them,  not  merely  to 
stand  among  them  as  an  external  sympathizer,  but  to  be  num- 
bered among  them,  and  to  hear  and  give  the  salutation  of 
*  Brother.'  Could  I — if  all  else  had  failed  to  move  me — could 
I  be  unshaken  by  that  spectacle  of  radiant  hope  that  but  lately 
lighted  up  the  souls  of  those  who  buried  their  dead  in  those 
gloomy  vaults,  and  knew  that  the  departed  was  not  dead  but 
alive,  and  knew  where  that  soul  was,  and  what?  I  can  now 
delay  no  longer.  I  believe  that  this  religion  is  the  revelation  of 
the  Supreme.  I  believe  that  Jesus  Christ  is  the  Son  of  God,  and 
that  the  soul  that  believes  on  him  sha;l  have  life  everlasting." 


P    U' 


:  a' 


]i''- 


Ill 


t!  . 


HI 

1 1 


if  N 


lli  t 


r< 


«30 


THE  RESOLVE. 


Cineas  heard  this  without  surprise,  for  he  well  knew  how 
strongly  Julius  had  been  drawn  towards  the  Christians  ever 
since  his  memorable  voyage  with  Paul.  He  felt  a  kind  of  envy 
of  his  friend,  and  for  a  moment  wished  that  he  himself  might 
have  the  same  calm  faith.  For  it  was  his  nature  to  question  all 
things ;  he  struggled  with  doubt  that  rose  behind  every  belief, 
and  the  habit  of  a  lifetime  of  speculation  could  not  readily  be 
lost. 

"  I  am  glad,  my  friend,"  said  he,  in  tones  that  expressed  a 
pensive  melancholy,  "  glad  that  you  at  least  have  decided  so. 
For  me  it  is  very  different.  Yet  I  confess  that  I  am  shaken  to 
the  soul  by  the  memory  of  all  that  I  have  heard  and  seen. 
The  song  that  arose  out  of  those  vaults  seemed  to  me  like  the 
soul  of  the  dead  rising,  from  the  gloom  of  the  sepulchre,  and 
soaring  upward  to  its  God.  I  admire  that  faith  which  can 
enter  into  the  mind  of  the  humblest  and  most  ignorant,  and 
make  him  believe  in  a  spiritual  life,  and  live  so  as  to  attain  to 
it.  I  wonder,  too,  at  the  power  of  that  religion  which  can 
change  an  ignorant,  untutored  man,  and  make  him  turn  all  his 
thoughts  and  affections  to  a  lofty  spiritual  idea.  How  comes 
it  ]  You  will  answer  that  it  comes  from  God.  Be  it  so.  At 
any  rate,  all  that  I  know  is  that  he  has  not  yet  given  to  me  a 
belief  that  all  this  came  from  him. 

"  If  I  believed  as  you  do,  with  your  unquestioning  faith,  I 
would  do  as  you  propose  at  any  sacrifice.  But  I  do  not  and 
cannot  believe  so." 

"  But  why  not  1"  said  Julius.  "  Does  not  Plato  himself 
testify  to  the  truth  of  an  Incarnate  God  1  You  yourself  have 
often  acknowledged  that  God  might  descend  among  men.  If 
so,  is  it  difficult  to  believe  that  he  might  suffer  ?  I  do  not 
know  so  much  as  you,  but  I  have  studied  Plato,  and  well  I 
remember  how  the  master  used  to  comment  on  some  wonder- 
ful passages.  Do  you  not  remember  how  Socrates  says  : — *  It 
is  not  possible  that  any  man  should  be  safe,  who  sincerely 


THE  RESOLVE. 


331 


opposes  either  you  or  any  other  people,  and  who  prevents 
many  unjust  and  illegal  acts  from  being  committed  in  a  state  V 
Socrates  affirms  that  to  a  holy  being  death  is  imminent.  And 
do  you  not  remember  the  well-known  definition  of  the  just  man 
in  the  discussion  about  justice,  in  the  second  book  of  the 
Republic^  where  the  speaker,  after  mentioning  the  just  man, 
goes  on  to  maintain  that  the  Just  One  should  have  nothing  but 
his  own  righteousness  to  sustain  him  ]  *  Let  him  be  without 
every thii.g  except  righteousness  :  without  doing  injustice,  too, 
let  him  have  the  reputation  of  the  greatest,  in  order  that  he 
may  be  put  to  the  test  for  justice,  and  not  be  moved  to  reproach 
and  its  consequences,  but  rather  be  unchangeable  till  death, 
seeming,  indeed,  to  be  unjust  through  life,  though  really  just.' 

"  Do  you  not,  above  all,  remember  what  the  speaker  in  that 
dialogue  affirmed  would  be  the  lot  of  such  a  mani  *  The  Just 
Ofie,  thus  situated,  will  be  scourged,  tortured,  fettered,  have  his 
eyes  burned  out,  and  after  suffering  all  manner  of  evils,  will  at 
last  be  crucified' " 

These  words  were  spoken  by  Julius  with  a  solemnity  and  an 
emphasis  that  showed  how  deep  a  meaning  he  attached  to 
them.  He  then  remained  silent  for  a  time,  and  Cineas,  who 
seemed  quite  startled,  said  nothing.  The  passage  was  well 
known  to  him  ;  it  had  come  up  more  than  once  in  the  discus- 
sions of  "  the  master,"  but  though  he  had  been  familiar  with  the 
character  of  Christ  for  some  time,  it  had  never  occurred  to  him 
to  refer  it  to  him.  Now,  when  he  saw  them  so  applied,  he  saw 
the  full  meaning  of  Julius.  For  Christ  was  in  his  eyes  the  All 
Holy,  the  Perfect  Just,  the  One  who  in  his  life  was  considered 
unjust  by  his  enemies,  who  was  slandered  and  reviled,  who  had 
nothing  of  his  own  except  his  righteousness  and  holiness.  And 
what  was  his  fate  1  Was  not  he  scourged  and  tortured  1  Was 
not  he,  after  suffering  all  manner  of  evils,  finally  crucified  ?  This 
thought  for  a  time  overwhelmed  Cineas,  and  Julius,  seeing  the 
effect  of  it,  said  nothing. 


I.\ 


I 


i!  r! ' 


9$a 


THE  RESOLVE. 


At  length  Cineas  recovered  himself. 

"  Most  admirable  is  your  argument,  Julius,"  said  he,  "  Plato 
is  assuredly  a  witness  for  Christ ;  and  I  am  glad  that  you  have 
shown  me  a  new  application  for  these  passages.  I  am  quite 
willing  to  read  them  as  you  do.  For  I  admire  the  pure  and 
unsullied  character  of  the  One  whom  you  so  love  ;  I  revere  his 
lofty  virtue  and  his  constancy  till  the  end.  Of  all  these  I 
have  heard  enough  to  touch  my  heart.  But  you  ask  of  me  far 
more  than  this. 

"  I  will  go  so  far  as  to  say,  that  if  God  should  manifest  him- 
self to  man,  such  a  manifestation  as  this  would  not  be  unworthy 
even  of  the  Deity.  Such  a  life  as  this  might  not  be  incon- 
sistent with  divine  grandeur.  But  when  you  ask  me  to  look  at 
him  on  the  cross,  1  recoil  in  horror.  Can  this  be  the  Divine 
One  who  thus  endures  iieath  1 

"  I  pass  by  the  shame,  the  insult,  and  the  agony.  I  look 
only  at  the  one  fact  of  death.  It  matters  not  to  me  that,  as  you 
say,  he  rose  again.  I  can  look  no  further  than  tiie  one  fact  of 
his  death.  That  is  enough.  To  me  it  is  simply  inconceivable 
that  God,  under  any  circumstances,  should  suffer  death." 

To  this  Julius  answered,  that  Christ  died  to  atone  for  sin. 
All  men  ^re  sinners,  and  subject  to  the  wrath  of  God.  Unless 
they  can  obtain  pardon,  they  must  suffer  for  ever. 

To  this  doctrine  Cineas  expressed  the  strongest  repugnance. 

"  I  acknowledge,"  said  he,  "  that  there  is  much  sin  in  the 
world ;  but  a  large  number  of  men  are  simple  good-hearted 
folk,  and  to  say  that  they  are  under  God's  wraib,  and  liable  to 
eternal  punishment,  seems  so  shocking  that  I  do  not  think  it 
deserves  discussion. 

"  To  pardon  sin,  you  say.  What  sin  ?  I  deny  that  all  men 
are  sinners.  I  know  many  good,  and  wise,  and  holy  men,  who 
have  done  nothing  to  merit  any  future  punishment,  and  who, 
in  fact,  should  receive  in  the  future  nothing  but  blessedness. 
For  myself,  I  do  not  see  what  I  have  done  that  needed  such 


»  !ll    i 


THE  RESOLVE. 


233 


suffering  on  my  behalf.  You  will  say  that  he  died  for  me. 
Why  should  he  die  for  me  %  What  punishment  have  I  deserved, 
that  he  should  take  it  upon  himself  and  suffer  in  my  place  % 

"  I,  from  my  earliest  youth,  have  tried  to  seek  after  truth 
and  God.  Is  this  sin  1  I  have  given  myself  up  to  this  life- 
long pursuit.  Have  I  incurred  God's  wrath — the  wrath  of  One 
whom  my  soul  crives  to  know  and  seeks  to  love  ? 

"  Have  I  not  sought  after  him  all  my  life  1  Do  I  not  now 
esteem  the  knowledge  of  him  the  greatest  blessing  that  can 
come  to  man,  and  will  he  turn  away  his  face  for  ever  from  one 
who  seeks  above  all  to  know  himi  I  have  always  endeavoured 
to  live  a  pure  life,  and  will  you  tell  me  that  eternal  punishment 
lies  before  me  ?  For  what  ?  What  have  I  ever  done  1  Can 
you  believe  this,  and  yet  affirm  that  God  is  just  ?" 

This  brought  on  a  long  discussion.  Julius  undertook  to  show 
that  sin  lies  .  thought  as  well  as  action ;  and  that  he  who  would 
examine  his  own  heart,  and  compare  himself  with  what  he  ought 
to  be,  would  see  that  he  was  a  sinner.  On  the  other  hand,  Cineas 
maintained  that  such  things  as  these  were  not  sins,  but  merely 
imperfections,  for  which  no  one  was  responsible,  or,  at  any  rate, 
if  any  one  was  responsible,  it  could  only  be  the  Creator. 

The  discussion  then  went  off  into  wide  questions,  but  nothing 
could  be  accomplished  either  in  one  way  or  another.  They 
had  no  common  ground  here.  Cineas  complained  that  Julius 
persisted  in  seeing  sin  in  those  thoughts  and  words  which  he 
himself  considered  perfectly  harmless ;  that  he  gave  no  credit 
to  the  noble  acts  of  valour  and  patriotism  which  men  perform, 
but  affirmed  that  no  soul  could  be  saved  by  these. 

**  Your  whole  doctrine  of  sin,"  said  he,  "  is  so  excessively 
repugnant  that  the  discussion  is  painful.  Indeed,  z  discussion 
on  such  a  subject  seems  to  me  to  be  useless.  It  is  a  good  and 
a  pleasant  world  that  we  see  around  us,  and  to  apply  the  name 
sinners  to  the  '  kindly  race  of  men,'  seems  like  saying  that  the 
world  is  all  dark,  even  in  its  bright  day-time. 


'V'.  is. 


234 


rilE  K EVOLVE. 


i 


"  Hut,  Julius."  he  said  in  conclusion,  •'  believe  mc!,  I  am  not 
one  who  brings  up  a  score  of  petty  objections  to  a  pure  and 
elevated  religion  for  an  idle  purpose.  I  am  distressed.  I  am 
perplexed.  I  wish  that  tnis  Christianity  of  yours  could  be 
made  acceptable  to  me.     15ut  it  cannot  be. 

*•  CiO  on  as  you  propose.  My  heart  shall  be  with  you-  I 
will  stand  where  I  am,  and  in  my  doubt  will  still  pray  to  him ; 
and  if,  as  I  have  always  believed,  he  indeeil  hears  prayer,  then 
surely  he  will  at  some  time  hear  mi»ie,  feeble  though  it  be,  if 
not  in  this  life,  yet  perhaps  in  the  next." 

Julius  seized  the  hand  of  his  frientl  and  pressed  it  earnestly. 

"  There  are  many  prayers  ascending  for  you,  and  he  who 
has  promisetl  to  hear  all  prayer,  will  surely  hear  those  which  bear 
up  your  name  to  his  ears.  As  to  this  (piestion  about  sin,  1  can 
only  say  that  I  once  thought  as  you  do  ;  but  lately  I  seem  to 
have  received  a  great  light  in  my  soul,  and  have  seen  that  I 
am  sinful.  Whatever  you  may  '>e,  I  at  least  needed  all  that 
Christ  has  done.  I  deserved  suiTering ;  he  bore  it  for  me.  I 
believe  in  him,  and  give  myself  up  to  him,  for  this  life  and  for 
the  life  to  come." 

"  This  light  that  comes  to  your  mind,"  said  Cineas,  "  is 
something  that  I  have  never  experienced.  I  must  move  on  in 
obedience  to  a  logical  process.  I  must  obey  reason  above  all 
things.  A  theory  stated  in  so  many  words  is  not  enough.  I 
must  test  it.  If  it  will  not  stan  '  questioning,  how  am  I  to 
receive  it  I  But  I  will  talk  no  more  of  myself.  Think  of  me 
as  one  who  approves  of  what  you  are  doing,  and  who  deems 
you  happier  than  himself.  It  has  been  my  lot  to  see  Chris- 
tianity bringing  peace  and  comfort  to  many  minds  that  had 
been  disturbeil  by  much  sorrow.  It  brings  happiness.  May 
you  jiossess  all  the  happiness  that  it  can  give." 

"  That  hajipincss  will  yet  be  yours,  too,  my  best  of  friends,  I 
doubt  not.  A  longer  time  will  be  needetl ;  but  you  will  at  last 
see  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus." 


XXII. 


Son  antr  jfatj^tr. 


HEN  Julius  informed  his  father  of  his  decision,  he 
njct  with  a  storm  of  indignant  rebuke.  The  old 
man  hated  Christianity  because  it  came  from 
Syria.  He  indulged  in  his  usual  strain  of  invective 
against  the  vices  of  the  age,  and  declared  that  Syria  had  ruined 
all  things. 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  he  cried,  "  that  Christianity  is  different.  It 
cannot  be.  It  is  impossible  for  any  good  thing  to  come  out  of 
Syria.  The  people  are  incurably  vicious.  From  immemorial 
ages  it  has  been  the  chosen  seat  of  all  vice,  and  profligacy,  and 
obscenity.  You  are  deceived,  foolish  boy.  You  are  beguiled 
by  a  fair  exterior.  Wait  till  you  learn  the  actual  practice  of 
these  Christians.  For  my  part,  I  believe  all  that  the  people 
say  about  them.  I  believe  that  they  indulge  in  horrid  vices  in 
their  secret  meetings,  in  those  out  of  the  way  places  where  no 
honest  man  ever  thinks  of  going.  Don't  tell  me  I  am  wror  g. 
I  am  right,  and  i  know  it.  You  will  find  this  out  some  day. 
There  is  nothing  but  foulness  in  everything  Syrian.  Rome  is 
full  of  it.  What  other  curse  has  Rome  but  this  1  Go  to  all 
the  most  infamous  scoundrels  in  the  city  and  ask  them  where 
they  come  from.     There  is  only  one  place — Syria." 

So  the  old  man  morosely  railed  on,  Nothing  could  induce 
him  to  listen  to  the  explanation  of  Julius.  Nothing  could 
make  him  think  that  the  Christians  were  in  any  way  different 


1!^  : 


236 


SON  AND  FATHER. 


■)  > 


from  the  followers  of  other  Syrian  superstitions,  with  which  the 
city  was  filled.  He  menaced  Julius  with  his  fiercest  wrath. 
He  swore  he  would  disown  him,  cast  him  off,  and  curse  him. 
There  was  an  excited  and  painful  interview.  The  old  man 
stormed.  Julius  entreated  to  be  heard,  but  in  vain.  At  last, 
he  told  his  father,  mildly,  that  he  was  a  man,  responsible  only 
to  himself,  and  would  do  this,  whatever  the  consequences 
might  be.  Whereupon  old  Carbo  turned  pale  with  rage,  bade 
him  be  gone,  and  cursed  him  to  his  face. 

Julius  went  away  sadly,  but  his  conscience  sustained  him. 
A  father's  curse  was  a  terrible  thing;  but  he  knew  that  the 
impetuous  old  man  would  one  day  relent.  He  could  not 
maintain  anger  or  malice  for  any  length  of  time.  So  the  son 
expected  some  future  time  of  reconciliation,  Carbo  would  see 
his  error,  and  be  willing  to  receive  his  son  back  again  to  his 
heart. 

Thus  Julius  joined  himself  to  the  Christians,  whom  he  had 
learned  to  love,  and  whose  faith  he  at  last  fully  received. 
When  once  he  had  entered  that  society,  and  become  an 
acknowledged  follower  of  Christ,  he  found  greater  happiness 
than  ever  he  had  known  before.  He  now  fully  shared  the 
hopes,  the  fears,  the  sorrows,  and  the  joys  of  this  little  com- 
munity, who  were  still  small  in  number,  but  felt  that  they  pos- 
sessed the  truth  that  came  down  from  God.  And  what  else  on 
earth  could  he  desire  beside  this  ]  Honour,  and  power,  and 
wealth  seemed  poor  in  comparison  with  that  which  he  really 
possessed. 

Paul  had  been  in  Rome  for  nearly  three  years,  and  at  length 
decided  to  depart,  leaving  this  young  Roman  church  to  the 
care  of  other  hands  and  to  Go''  Omer  countries  demanded 
his  services.  He  had  told  the  people  of  his  intention,  and 
they,  though  sorely  distressed  at  the  thought  of  losing  him, 
nevertheless  fully  believed  that  the  apostle  followed  the  voice 
of  God,  and  meekly  acquiesced.     They  would  not  claim  all.  the 


SON  AND  FATHER. 


237 


labours  of  Paul  for  themselves.  They  knew  that  other  lands 
needed  him,  and  in  their  earnest  desire  for  the  salvation  of 
other  souls  they  were  willing  to  let  him  go. 

Others  went  with  him,  but  chief  among  his  followers  was 
Philo.  In  the  months  that  had  succeeded  his  mother's  death 
he  had  returned  to  his  former  calm.  Still  troubled  often  by 
his  ever-recurring  remorse,  he  thought  the  best  antidote  to 
grief  would  be  found  in  incessant  acti^  He  gave  himself  up 
with  the  most  ardent  devotion  to  t^  cauce  which  he  loved. 
As  the  world  was  nothing  to  him,  he  fixed  his  heart  and  his 
thoughts  with  peculiar  intensity  on  the  world  on  high.  In  the 
yearning  of  his  soul  he  thought  that  the  spirit  of  his  mother 
might  yet  regard  him  ;  and  that  the  love  which  she  had  borne 
still  lived  in  her  heart,  in  the  new  life  which  she  had  found. 

He  himself  was  but  weak  and  feeble.  Either  from  excessive 
nervousness,  which  he  had  inherited  from  his  mother,  or  from 
the  results  of  early  dissipation,  or  the  grief  of  later  years,  or 
from  all  these  causes  combined,  his  constitution  was  shattc/ed, 
and  his  pale  emaciated  face  and  glowing  eyes  showed  that  in 
his  frame  he  carried  the  seeds  of  death.  Yet,  in  spite  of  suffer- 
ing and  weakness,  he  laboured  incessantly,  and  chose  to  accom- 
pany Paul,  because  he  knew  that  with  such  a  leader  he  would 
encounter  the  greatest  peril  and  be  summoned  to  the  severest 
labour. 


i   I 


XXIII. 

^^c  gurnm0  ai  ^0me. 

N  one  memorable  evening,  Lydia  and  her  father  were 
together  in  their  room,  and  Lydia,  at  her  father's 
request,  was  reading  that  letter  which  Paul  had 
written  to  the  Christians  at  Rome  before  his  visit, 
and  which  had  always  been  prized  by  them  most  highly. 

The  centurion  sat  in  deep  attention,  lost  in  thought,  and  in 
such  a  profound  abstraction  that  he  thought  of  nothing  except 
those  divine  words  which  fell  upon  his  ears.  But  the  reader 
was  strangely  disturbed,  and  often  paused. 

For  outside  there  arose  strange,  mysterious  sounds,  the 
voices  of  a  vast  multitude,  and  mingled  cries  of  fear  nnd  excite- 
ment. It  was  as  though  all  the  population  of  the  city  had 
gone  forth  into  the  streets  on  some  great  purpose,  but  under 
some  such  impulse  as  fear.  For  the  cries  were  wild  and  start- 
ling, and  panic  reigned,  and  terror  was  stalking  abroad. 

In  vain  Lydia  tried  to  read  calmly.  Calmness  was  impos- 
sible when  the  clamour  grew  every  moment  louder  and  louder, 
and  outside  the  cries  of  men  were  borne  to  her  ears,  and  inside, 
in  every  part  of  the  vast  edifice  in  whose  topmost  story  they 
lived,  there  was  the  noise  of  people  hurrying  to  and  fro,  and 
loud  calls  from  one  to  another  in  tones  of  fear,  and  all  the 
signs  of  universal  trepidation  and  alarm. 

At  last,  a  lurid  glow  flashed  into  the  chamber,  and  Lydia 
started,  and  cast  a  fearful  glance  out  of  the  window.    The  glow 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


«39 


passed  away,  and  all  was  dark  once  more.  She  feared,  and 
could  scarcely  find  voice  to  go  on  with  her  task.  Before  her 
arose  the  terror  of  fire,  which  was  always  the  ever-present  dan- 
ger to  all  the  population  of  Rome.  It  was  only  by  a  mighty 
effort  that  she  was  able  to  go  on.  She  proceeded,  and  read : — 
"  What  shall  we  say  then  to  these  things  1  If  God  be  for  us, 
who  can  be  against  us  ?  He  that  spared  not  his  own  Son,  but 
freely  gave  him  up  for  us  all,  how  shall  he  not  with  him  also 
freely  give  us  all  things  1  Who  shall  lay  anything  to  the  charge 
of  God's  elect  1  It  is  God  that  justifieth.  Who  is  he  that  con- 
demneth  ?  It  is  Christ  that  died ;  yea,  rather,  that  is  risen 
again  ;  who  is  even  at  the  right  hand  of  God,  who  also  maketh 
intercession  for  us.  Who  shall  separate  us  from  the  love  of 
Christ  1  Shall  tribulation,  or  distress,  or  persecution,  or  famine, 
or  nakedness,  or  peril,  or  sword  ?    As  it  is  written  : — 

"  '  For  thy  sake  we  are  killed  all  the  day  long ;  • 

We  are  accounted  as  sheep  for  the  slaughter.' 

"Nay,  in  all  these  things  we  are  more  than  conquerors, 
through  him  that  loved  us.  For  I  am  persuaded  that  neither 
death,  nor  life,  nor  angels,  nor  principalities,  nor  powers,  nor 
things  present,  nor  things  to  come,  nor  height,  nor  depth,  nor 
any  other  creature  shall  be  able  to  separate  us  from  the  love  of 
God  which  is  in  Christ  Jesus  our  Lord." 

During  the  reading  of  this  the  cries  and  the  clamour  had 
increased  j  but  the  centurion  heard  nothing.  He  sat  with 
folded  arms,  and  eyes  half-closed,  looking  upward  with  an 
ecstatic  expression  on  his  face,  und  with  his  lips  moving  as  he 
whispered  the  words  after  his  daughter. 

But  as  Lydia  ended,  there  came  another  lurid  flash,  which 
now  did  not  pass  away,  but  continued,  steadily  prolonging 
itself,  and  growing  redder  and  more  menacing. 

Lydia  uttered  a  cry,  and  the  book  fell  from  her  hands. 

The  centurion  started,  and  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

Lydia  pointed  out  of  the  window. 


!!,• 


t  s 

I, 


>40 


r//E  BURmNG  OF  ROAfE. 


In  an  instant  the  centurion  was  recalled  to  himself. 

For  it  was  a  terrible  sight  that  now  appeared. 

The  whole  sky  was  red  with  flame ;  myriads  of  sparks 
floated  along,  carried  swiftly  past  them,  and  great  clouds  of 
dense  smoke  rolled  by,  sometimes  obscuring  the  light  of  the 
fire  for  a  moment,  but  only  to  let  it  shine  out  again  with  fresh 
brilliancy.     That  terrific  glare  grew  brighter  every  second. 

The  centurion  threw  open  a  window  in  the  roof,  and  as- 
cended a  ladder,  and  stood  outside.  Lydia  followed  him.  A 
cry  involuntarily  escaped  the  old  man's  lips  as  he  took  a  glance 
around.  Near  Mount  Palatine,  between  it  and  the  Caelian 
Mount,  was  the  circus.  Here  there  was  an  intense  glow  of 
light  which  dazzled  the  eyes.  Advancing  from  this  quarter, 
the  flames  came  rolling  on  directly  toward  the  street  in  which 
the"  lived.  They  saw  the  fire  leaping  from  house  to  house  in 
its  fierce  march,  and  moving  on  remorselessly  to  their  own 
abode. 

The  wind  was  high,  and  the  roar  of  the  flames  could  be 
heard,  as,  fanned  by  that  wind,  they  swept  over  the  habitations 
of  man.  There  had  been  a  long  season  of  drought,  and  every- 
thing in  the  city  was  parched  and  dry.  The  old  houses,  with 
their  numerous  stories,  that  rose  up  so  loftily,  were  like  tinder, 
and  caught  the  flame  as  easily  as  possible.  The  prospect 
before  them  was  not  merely  their  own  destruction,  but  universal 
calamity. 

Below,  there  came  up  a  louder  cry,  and  the  rush  of  a  vast 
multitude  through  the  narrow  streets,  and  shrieks  from  terrified 
women.  The  noise  was  more  terrific  than  the  fire.  It  was  as 
though  all  Rome  was  in  the  streets,  flying  from  that  dread  cala- 
mity which  threatened  all  alike.  For  although  Rome  was 
accustomed  to  fires,  yet  this  was  worse  than  anything  which  it 
had  known,  and  the  drought  had  served  to  prepare  the  city  for 
the  destroyer,  and  all  men  felt  that  this  fierce  flame,  so  often 
kept  back  and  resisted,  would  now  be  triumphant. 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


241 


But  Lydia  uttered  another  cry  of  fear,  and  seizing  her  father's 
arm,  pointed  away  toward  the  opposite  side.  . 

There  was  need  for  fear.  There,  too,  was  fire.  Not  in  one 
plaoe,  or  in  two,  but  in  many.  Bright  glowing  spots  flecked 
the  dark  forms  of  the  houses,  where  the  flames  leaped  up,  and 
spread  on,  and  enfolded  all  things  before  them.  So  many  of 
these  fires  appeared,  that  it  seemed  as  though  they  were  sur- 
rounded by  a  circle  of  flame. 

"  Oh,  father  1 "  cried  Lydia,  "  what  is  this?  Is  this,  then,  the 
last  day  1 

"See,  father,  all  the  world  seems  to  be  on  fire.  Will  the 
last  summons  come  1 " 

"I  know  not,  my  daughter — who  can  tell?"  answered  the 
centurion.  "But  fear  ot,  my  child.  While  I  live  I  will  pro- 
tect you ;  and  if  this  is  even  the  last  day,  yo\i  have  nothing  to 
fear." 

"  Oh,  father,"  cried  Lydia,  shuddering,  "  the  flames  encircle 
us  1  Where  can  we  fly  to  ?  We  are  enclosed  in  a  ring  of  fire, 
and  I  can  see  no  opening." 

"  No,"  said  the  centurion,  in  calm  courageous  tones.  "  The 
fire  advances  from  the  circus ;  the  wind  blows  the  flames  to- 
wards us.  The  only  danger  is  on  that  side.  On  the  other 
side  the  fire  that  you  see  is  caused  by  the  falling  sparks  that 
have  been  kindled  on  the  dry  houses.  There  is  no  danger 
there.    We  can  easily  pass  on." 

"  Oh,  then,  let  us  fly  ! " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  centurion,  "  we  must  haste.  We  must 
leave  everything.  Well,  we  have  not  much  to  lose.  I  will  put 
on  my  armour,  and  do  you  clothe  yourself  warmly.  There  is 
no  use  to  try  to  save  anything.  The  manuscript  is  all  that  we 
can  carry  away." 

Hastily  they  made  their  preparations,  and  at  last  the  cen- 
turion, in  full  armour,  hurried  away,  followed  by  his  daughter, 
who  clung  closely  to  him. 


(185) 


i6 


\ 


243 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


\\\ 


'J  ; 


•■  !■' 


'  4 


On  their  way  down  they  found  the  stairs  filled  with  people, 
ascending  and  descending,  carrying  their  movables,  and  trying 
to  save  something  of  their  property.  With  great  difficulty  they 
passed  through  this  crowd,  and  at  last  reached  the  street.  But 
here  they  found  further  progress  impossible,  for  a  vast  crowd 
filled  that  street,  and  stood  still,  locked  together,  and  stopped 
by  something  at  the  end.  Out  of  all  the  houses  people  were 
pouring,  and  the  crowd  here  could  not  easily  move  till  all  the 
houses  before  them  were  emptied. 

"  Father,  father,  we  are  lost ! "  cried  Lydia. 

"No,  my  daughter,"  said  her  father;  "do  not  fear.  I  have 
seen  many  such  sights  as  this — too  many.  I  am  a  soldier,  a  d 
have  been  familiar  with  burning  cities.  It  will  take  an  hour 
for  the  flames  to  get  to  this  house,  and  before  that  time  the 
crowd  will  dissolve  and  move  away.     Trust  in  me." 

The  time  passed,  and  slowly,  too,  for  those  who  thus  stood 
in  suspense,  but  the  crowd  did  not  make  much  progress. 
Wedged  in  this  narrow  street,  it  seemed  as  though  the  wretched 
fugitives  could  never  escape.  And  every  moment  brought  the 
flames  nearer. 

At  length  the  houses  at  the  head  of  the  street  began  to  burn. 
Louder  shrieks  arose,  and  hundreds,  despairing  of  escape  by 
the  street,  rushed  back  into  the  houses  and  clambered  to  the 
roofs,  along  which  they  passed.  Vast  numbers  saw  this  and 
followed  the  idea.  The  streets  were  sensibly  relieved,  the 
crowd  grew  thinner,  and  it  seemed  as  though  escape  might  yet 
be  possible. 

And  now  the  flames  had  come  so  near  that  the  heat  could 
be  felt,  and  the  smoke  that  streamed  past  almost  suffocated  the 
crowds  in  the  street.  Lydia  began  to  survey  the  possible  fate 
that  lay  before  her,  and  expected  death,  but  said  nothing.  At 
last  the  centurion  spoke, — 

"  I  would  have  tried  the  roof  before,  but  I  felt  afraid  about 
you.     I  think,  after  all  we  had  better  try  it.     If  the  people  do 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


a43 


not  move  faster  they  will  be  destroyed.  I  would  not  let  myself 
be  wedged  in  that  crowd.  If  I  have  to  die,  I  would  rather  die 
here." 

Lydia  uttered  a  low  cry,  and  clung  to  her  father.  From 
these  words  she  knew  that  death  was  near. 

"  But  courage,  my  darling.  Follow  me  and  be  firm.  There 
is  no  danger." 

The  centurion  turned,  and  already  had  his  foot  on  the  lower 
stair,  when  a  tremendous  crash  against  the  wall  of  their  build- 
ing startled  him. 

Lydia  almost  swooned  with  terror. 

But  the  centurion  uttered  a  cry  of  joy.  Again  and  again  the 
sound  came,  with  cries  of  men,  but  not  cries  of  fear.  It  was  a 
familiar  sound  to  his  ears.  Often  had  he  heard  that  sound 
before  the  walls  and  gates  of  beleaguered  cities. 

"  We  are  saved ! "  cried  Eubulus.  "  Help  is  near.  It  is  the 
battering-ram." 

"  The  battering-ram  ] "  said  Lydia,  in  a  puzzle. 

"  The  soldiers  are  here.  They  are  breaking  a  way  through 
for  the  crowd.     Thank  God  !    Thank  God  ! " 

The  blows  grew  fiercer,  and  the  sound  came  nearer.  The 
calls  of  the  leader  and  the  shouts  of  the  men  were  distinctly 
audible.  The  voice  of  that  leader  seemed  familiar.  Lydia's 
heart  beat  fasier  as  she  thought  that  she  recognized  it. 

At  last  the  wall  close  behind  them  came  down  with  a  crash, 
shattered  by  a  tremendous  stroke,  and  a  cry  of  triumph  arose 
from  the  room  beyond.  Another  and  another  blow,  and  all  the 
wall  was  broken  through.  Then  a  man  dashed  through  the 
ruin,  and  rushed  to  the  door. 

It  was  Julius. 

The  moment  that  he  saw  them  he  seized  Lydia's  hand,  and 
in  a  voice  broken  with  emotion,  he  cried,  "  My  God,  I  thank 
thee  ! " 

Then  in  an  instant  he  called  to  the  crowd  in  the  streets, — 


\ 


«  ' 


ill 


% 

If 


¥- 


I  ll 


ill' 


'% 


344 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


St  I  '' 


t  !. 


J   i! 


"This  way.  This  way.  The  soldiers  have  broken  a  way 
through  to  the  Suburra  I " 

A  cry  of  joy  was  the  response. 

On  the  instant  the  great  crowd  made  a  spring  at  that 
door. 

Julius  lifted  Lydia  in  his  arms  as  though  she  were  a  child, 
and  rushed  off,  followed  by  the  centurion.  A  wide  passage 
had  been  knocked  away  through  a  whole  block  of  houses ;  the 
huge  beams  supported  the  mass  overhead,  preventing  them 
from  falling  in,  and  the  new  avenue  was  almost  as  wide  as  the 
narrow  street.  Julius  went  on,  carrying  Lydia,  and  followed 
by  Eubulus;  behind  them  came  the  soldiers,  and  after  them 
streamed  the  wild  crowd. 

At  last  they  came  to  the  Suburra.  Here  Julius  put  Lydia 
down,  and  the  soldiers  advanced  before  them  and  behind, 
forcing  their  way. 

The  heavens  were  all  aglow  with  the  blaze.  Lydia  looked 
toward  the  place  from  which  they  had  just  come,  and  shuddered 
to  see  the  fire  spreading  over  those  very  roofs  by  which  they 
had  thought  of  escaping.  She  now  knew  how  desperate  was 
their  situation. 

Around  them  there  was  the  wildest  confusion.  A  vast  mass 
of  human  beings  hurried  along,  obeying  one  common  impulse 
of  fear,  not  knowing  where  to  go,  but  expecting  to  get  to  some 
place  of  temporary  safety.  Great  waggons  rolled  along,  filled 
with  furniture  which  some  had  sought  to  save;  lines  of  litters 
borne  by  slaves  conveyed  away  the  wealthier  citizens;  and  men 
on  horseback  mingled  with  the  crowd  on  foot. 

But  the  crowd  on  foot  was  most  pitiable,  as  the  people 
struggled  along.  Some  were  carrying  bits  of  furniture,  hastily 
snatched  up,  which  they  gradually  got  rid  of  as  they  found 
themselves  overpowered  by  fatigue ;  others  carried  bundles  of 
clothing;  others  boxes,  which  contained  all  their  worldly  wealth. 
Some  carried  along  their  sick  friends,  whose  groans  were  added 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


245 


to  the  general  uproar;  others  their  little  children,  whose  cries 
of  fear  came  up  shrilly  and  sharply  amid  the  confusion. 

Amid  that  crowd  there  were  families  separated,  who  vainly 
sought  to  find  one  another.  Husbands  called  after  wives,  and 
wives  after  husbands;  fathers  called  the  names  of  their  children; 
but  what  was  saddest  of  all,  was  the  sight  of  hundreds  of  little 
children  intermixed  with  the  crowd,  and  sometimes  pressed, 
and  knocked  down,  and  trampled  under  foot,  shrieking  with 
fear,  and  crying  frantically,  "  Father ! "  "  Mother  ! "  But  who 
could  help  them  %  Their  fathers  and  mothers  were  lost  in  the 
crowd,  and  if  any  man  had  presence  of  mind  or  pity  enough  to 
help  one,  there  were  hundreds  and  thousands  of  others  who 
needed  equal  help.  Universal  panic  reigned  everywhere,  and 
the  multitude  was  wild  with  fright,  and  unreasoning  and  un- 
merciful. And  over  all  the  din  there  was  the  roar  of  the  piti- 
less flames,  as  they  carne  on  from  behind,  and  danced  and 
leaped,  as  if  in  mockery  over  the  sorrow  and  fear  of  man. 

Through  all  this  the  soldiers  forced  their  way  at  a  steady 
pace,  and  Lydia  saw  with  great  relief  that  every  step  took  them 
further  from  danger.  Julius  kept  her  hand,  and  walked  by  her 
side,  and  the  old  man  came  behind. 

"I  saw  it  when  it  first  broke  out,"  said  Julius  to  Lydia, 
"  many  hours  ago.  I  saw  that  the  wind  blew  from  the  circus 
to  your  quarter,  and  at  once  ran  to  give  you  warning.  But  I 
could  do  nothing  against  the  crowd.  Then  I  went  back  and 
brought  these  soldiers,  and  tried  to  force  a  way  through  the 
crowd,  but  could  not.  They  were  so  tightly  packed  that  it  was 
impossible.  So  I  determined  to  break  through  the  houses,  for 
I  knew  that  this  was  the  only  way  to  get  to  you  ;  and  besides, 
I  knew  that  even  if  I  did  not  find  you  in  the  house,  I  could  call 
off  a  great  number  of  the  people  by  this  new  avenue  of  escape, 
and  so  perhaps  find  you.  But,  God  be  thanked  !  I  found  you 
there,  at  your  own  door." 

The   voice  of  Julius  faltered  as  he  spoke,  and  he   pressed 


\\ 


I  I 


t 
i 
i 


E     i 


:• . 


t 


M 


1 


I 


946 


rilR  lUTRNING  OF  ROME. 


liydia's  hand  tightly  in  his  deep  emotion.  The  maiden  cast 
down  her  eyes.  Amid  all  the  surrounding  panic  she  felt  calm, 
as  though  his  presence  brought  assured  safety  j  and  when  she 
first  saw  him  come  through  the  ruins  of  the  house,  he  stood  like 
an  angel  before  her,  and  his  strong  words  inspired  her  with 
courage  that  caused  her  to  rise  above  the  terror  around. 

On  they  went  through  the  tumult  at  a  steady  march,  until  at 
last  they  turned  off  to  the  right,  ami  after  traversing  several 
streets  which  were  less  crowded,  though  thronged  with  the 
alarmed  multitude,  they  reached  the  foot  of  the  Esquiline. 
Here  Julius  turned  up  a  broad  avenue,  and  halted  his  soldiers 
in  front  of  l.abeo's  gate. 

"  I  have  a  good  friend  here,"  said  he,  "  who  will  be  glad  to 
give  you  shelter  for  a  time,  till  I  can  find  a  new  place  for  you." 

He  then  went  forward,  followed  by  Lydia  and  her  father,  and 
they  all  entered  the  hall. 

A  few  words  explained  all  to  Labeo,  who  received  the  father 
and  daughter  with  the  warmest  welcome.  Helena  soon  made 
her  appearance,  and  when  the  centurion  recognized  in  her  a 
Christian,  he  felt  more  inclined  to  receive  the  proffered  hos- 
pitality. 

All  that  night  the  conflagration  raged,  extending  itself  more 
and  more  widely,  engulfuig  whole  blocks  of  houses,  surrounding 
and  hemming  in  the  wretched  inmates  till  no  escape  was  left. 
The  cries  of  men  mingled  with  the  roar  of  the  falling  houses 
and  the  noise  of  the  devouring  flames,  and  the  light  of  the  burn- 
ing city  startled  the  people  far  away  in  distant  parts  of  Italy. 
Men  hoped  for  morning,  thinking  that  daylight  would  bring 
some  relief,  and  praying,  like  Ajax,  if  they  had  to  die,  to  die  in 
the  light. 

Day  came,  but  brought  no  relief.  Horror  was  only  intensi- 
fied. One  entire  district  of  the  city  was  either  burned  up  or 
doomed  to  perish  immediately.  Men  looked  aghast  at  the 
towering  ilames  which  still  swept  on,  urged  forward  by  the 


Tim  BURNING  OF  ROME, 


247 


intense  heat  of  the  parts  that  had  been  already  burned.  Crowds 
of  people  had  sought  shelter  in  places  which  they  deemed  secure, 
but  they  now  found  the  fire  advancing  upon  these,  and  they  had 
to  fly  once  more.  Despair  prevailed  everywhere.  Little  chil- 
dren wandered  about,  weak  and  almost  dying  from  fatigue  and 
grief,  moaning  after  their  parents  ;  while  in  other  parts  of  the 
city  those  same  parents  were  searching  everywhere  for  their 
children.  Nothing  was  done  to  stop  the  flames,  for  no  one 
knew  what  to  do.     All  were  paralyzed. 

The  fire  moved  on.  Block  after  block  of  houses  was  con- 
sumed. The  streets  were  still  filled  with  flying  wretches.  But 
those  who  fled  could  now  fly  with  greater  freedom,  for  the 
population  were  forewarned,  and  they  were  no  longer  overtaken 
by  the  fir^  in  their  flight. 

The  keepers  of  the  public  prisons  fled.  The  keepers  of  the 
amphitheatre,  and  of  all  the  public  edifices,  sought  safety  for 
themselves,  forgetting  all  things  in  their  terror. 

Around  the  chief  amphitheatre  the  flames  soon  gathered,  and 
the  fire  dashed  itself  upon  it,  and  soon  a  vast  conflagration 
arose  which  surpassed  in  splendour  the  surrounding  fires.  All 
around  the  flames  ran,  passing  downward,  taking  in  all  the  seats 
and  working  their  way  to  the  lowest  vaults.  In  that  great  edi- 
fice, with  its  wood-work,  and  its  many  decorations,  its  various 
apparatus,  and  the  thousand  combustible  things  stored  there, 
the  flames  raged  fiercely,  throwing  up  a  vast  pyramid  of  fire  into 
the  air,  which  tossed  itself  into  the  skies,  and  crowned  all  other 
fires,  and  eclipsed  them  by  the  tremendous  force  of  its  superior 
glow. 

And  now  from  out  the  buildings  connected  with  the  amphi- 
theatre, as  the  flames  advanced,  there  came  a  sound  that  gave 
greater  horror  to  all  who  heard  it,  for  it  was  something  more 
terrible  than  anything  that  had  yet  been  heard.  It  was  a  sound 
of  agony  —the  cry  of  living  creatures  left  encaged  there  to  meet 
their  fate — the  wild  beasts  of  the  amphitheatre.     There  was 


I! 

I)' 


i 


,'^:i 


1 1 

i 


348 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


something  almost  human  in  that  sharp,  despairing  wail  of  fear. 
The  deep  roar  of  the  lion  resounded  above  all  other  cries,  but 
it  was  no  longer  the  lordly  roar  of  his  majestic  wrath,  it  was  no 
longer  the  voice  of  the  haughty  king  of  animals.  Terror  had 
destroyed  all  its  menacing  tones,  and  the  approach  of  fire  made 
his  stout  heart  as  craven  as  that  of  the  timid  hare.  The  roar  of 
the  lion  sounded  like  a  shriek,  as  it  rose  up  and  was  borne  on 
the  blast  to  the  ears  of  men, — a  shriek  of  despair, — a  cry  to 
Heaven  for  pity  on  that  life  which  the  Creator  had  formed. 
With  that  lion's  roar  there  blended  the  howl  of  the  tiger  and 
the  yell  of  the  hyaena ;  but  all  fierceness  was  mitigated  in  that 
hour  of  fright  and  dismay,  and  in  the  uproar  of  those  shrieks 
there  was  something  heart-rending,  which  made  men's  hearts 
quake,  and  caused  them  for  a  moment  to  turn  aside  from  their 
own  griefs  and  shudder  at  the  agony  of  beasts. 

Here,  where  the  flames  raced  and  chased  one  another  over 
the  lofty  arched  side,  and  from  which  man  had  fled,  and  the 
only  life  that  remained  was  heard  and  not  seen,  one  form  of  life 
suddenly  became  visible  to  those  who  found  occasion  to  watch 
this  place,  in  which  men  saw  that  touch  of  nature  which  makes 
all  men  kin ;  but  here  nature  asserted  her  power  in  the  heart  of 
a  lioness.  How  she  escaped  from  her  cell  no  one  could  say. 
Perhaps  the  heat  had  scorched  the  wood  so  that  she  broke  it 
away ;  perhaps  she  had  torn  away  the  side  in  her  fury ;  perhaps 
the  side  had  burned  away,  and  she  had  burst  through  the 
flames,  doing  this  not  for  herself,  but  for  that  offspring  of  hers 
which  she  carried  in  her  mouth,  holding  it  aloft,  and  in  her 
mighty  maternal  love  willing  to  devote  herself  to  all  danger  for 
the  sake  of  her  young.  She  seemed  to  come  up  suddenly  from 
out  the  midst  of  flame  and  smoke,  till  she  reached  the  furthest 
extremity  of  the  edifice,  and  there  she  stood,  still  holding  her 
cub,  now  regarding  the  approaching  flames,  and  now  looking 
around  everywhere  for  some  further  chance  of  escape.  There 
stood,  about  thirty  feet  away,  a  kind  of  portico  which  formed  the 


W 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME, 


I 
249 


front  of  a  Basilica,  and  this  was  the  only  building  that  was  near. 
To  this  the  lioness  directed  her  gaze,  and  often  turned  to  look 
upon  the  flames,  and  then  returned  again  to  inspect  the  portico. 
Its  side  stood  nearest,  and  the  sloping  roof  was  the  only  place 
that  afforded  a  foothold.  Between  the  two  places  lay  a  depth 
of  seventy  feet,  and  at  the  bottom  the  hard  stone  pavement. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  flames,  and  the  agony  of  a 
mother's  heart  was  seen  in  that  beast,  as  with  low  deep  moans 
she  saw  the  fiery  death  ihat  threatened.  Already  the  flames 
seemed  to  encircle  her,  and  the  smoke-clouds  drove  down, 
hiding  her  at  times  from  view.  At  last,  as  one  cloud,  which 
had  enveloped  her  for  a  longer  period  than  usual,  rolled  away, 
the  lioness  seemed  to  hesitate  no  longer.  Starting  back  to 
secure  space  for  a  run,  she  rushed  forward,  and  made  a  spring 
straight  towards  the  portico. 

Perhaps,  if  the  lioness  had  been  alone,  and  fresh  in  her 
strength,  she  might  easily  have  accomplished  the  leap  and 
secured  at  least  temporary  safety.  But  she  was  wearied  with 
former  efforts,  and  the  fire  had  already  scorched  her.  Besides 
this,  she  held  her  cub  in  her  mouth,  and  the  additional  weight 
bore  her  down.  As  it  was,  her  fore-paws  struck  the  edge  ol 
the  sloping  roof  of  the  portico,  she  clutched  it  madly  with  her 
sharp  claws,  and  made  violent  efforts  to  drag  herself  up.  She 
tried  to  catch  at  some  foothold  with  her  hind  legs,  but  there 
was  nothing.  The  tremendous  strain  of  such  a  position  could 
not  long  be  endured.  Gradually  her  efforts  relaxed.  At  last, 
as  though  she  felt  herself  falling,  she  made  a  final  effort. 
Mustering  all  her  strength,  she  seemed  to  throw  herself  upward. 
In  vain.  She  sank  back.  Her  limbs  lost  strength.  Her  claws 
slipped  from  the  place  which  they  had  held.  The  next  instant 
a  dark  form  fell,  and  mother  and  offspring  lay,  a  lifeless  mass, 
on  the  pavement. 

All  the  keepers  of  all  the  public  places  had  fled,  and  they 
had  left  behind  all  the  inmates.     These  inmates  were  not  wild 


-Km 


250 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


beasts  alone.  Some  were  human  beings.  The  jailers  had  fled 
from  the  prisons,  and  carried  a^vay  or  thrown  away  the  keys. 
Had  the  crowd  in  the  streets  be^n  less  frantic,  they  would 
have  done  something  to  free  the  wretches  whose  shrieks  re- 
sounded within  Hie  walls  over  which  the  flames  hung  threaten- 
ingly. They  would  have  burst  open  the  doors,  and  saved  the 
prisoners  confined  there  from  the  worst  of  fates.  But  the 
people  were  paralyzed  by  fear.  They  had  only  one  thought, 
and  that  was  personal  safety. 

The  great  prison  of  Rome  was  situated  in  the  very  front  of 
the  fire,  and  on  the  second  day,  as  it  advanced,  it  gradually 
surrounded  it.  For  some  time  ihe  solid  stone  walls  resisted  the 
progress  of  the  conflagration,  but  at  last  the  intense  heat  that 
prevailed  all  around  produced  its  effects  here.  The  outer 
doors  first  caught  the  blaze,  and  then  the  framework  of  the 
tiled  roof. 

At  first  the  inmates  knew  nothing  of  the  danger  that  threat- 
ened them,  but  after  a  time  the  oppressive  heat  of  the  atmo- 
sphere filled  them  with  Jread,  and  the  red  light  that  flashed 
through  the  openings  of  the  cells  showed  them  their  impending 
fate.  Loud  calls  arose  for  the  jailers;  but  no  jailers  were  there 
to  respond.  Then  howls,  and  curses,  and  shrieks,  and  prayers 
arose,  in  one  vast  confusion  of  sounds.  The  prisoners  saw  the 
fearful  danger,  and  in  their  madness  dashed  themselves  against 
the  prison  doors.  In  vain :  the  light  grew  brighter,  the  heat 
more  intense,  and  the  danger  more  near. 

In  one  large  room  there  were  several  hundred  confined,  and 
here  the  worst  scenes  were  enacted.  The  windows  were  narrow 
openings  only  a  few  inches  wide,  with  iron  bars  set  in  the  hard 
stone.  They  were  also  ten  feet  above  the  floor.  The  doors 
were  of  iron,  and  double,  with  iron  bars  to  secure  them. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  hope  of  escape.  Here  the  prisoners 
first  learned  their  danger,  and  it  went  from  mouth  to  mouth  till 
all  knew  it.     At  first  they  were  transfixed  with  fear ;  it  was  as 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


t 

25» 


though  each  man  had  become  rooted  to  the  spot.  They  looked 
at  each  other  with  awful  eyes,  and  then  at  the  narrow  windows 
through  which,  even  if  there  were  no  bars,  no  man  could  pass ; 
and  then  at  the  massive  iron  doors,  which  no  human  strength 
could  move  from  their  places.  They  knew  that  the  fire  was 
surrounding  them ;  they  knew  that  the  jailers  had  fled ;  they 
knew  the  whole  truth. 

Then  after  the  first  stupor  came  frenzy.  Some  dashed  them- 
selves against  the  door,  others  leaped  up  and  tried  to  catch  at 
the  bars  of  the  windows.  In  one  place,  some,  mounted  on  the 
shoulders  of  others,  tried  to  loosen  the  massive  stones  of  the 
wall  through  which  the  windows  were  pierced.  But  their  puny 
efforts  were  all  in  vain.  The  Roman  buildings  were  always  of 
the  massive  sort.  The  stones  were  alwajs  enormous  blocks, 
and  here  in  this  prison  they  were  of  the  largest  size.  All  efforts 
to  dislodge  these  were  simply  hopeless.  This  the  prisoners 
soon  found  out,  but  even  then  they  strove  to  move  them,  seek- 
ing for  some  one  of  smaller  size  which  might  not  resist  their 
efforts. 

But  doors  and  vindows  were  alike  immovable.  Overhead 
was  a  vaulted  roof  of  solid  stone;  beneath,  a  stone-paved  floor. 
Some  of  the  prisoners  tore  up  the  flagstones  that  formed  the 
pavement,  but  found  only  huge  blocks  of  rough-cut  travertine 
beneath. 

Meantime  the  fires  advanced,  and  the  heat  grew  more  intense, 
till  at  last  the  desire  was  not  so  much  for  escape  as  for  air  and 
breath.  Those  who  had  worked  hardest  were  first  exhausted, 
and  fell  panting  on  the  pavement ;  others  sought  the  windows, 
but  fou  id  the  air  without  hotter  than  that  within.  At  last 
despair  came,  and  all  stood  glaring  at  the  red  light  that 
flashed  through  the  windows,  and  grimly  and  savagely  awaited 
death. 

In  every  cell  where  solitary  prisoners  were  confined,  each 
individual  did  what  these  others  had  been  doing,  and  made  the 


U 


'  ,' 


*!' 


it 


in 


1^  J 


ifa 


THE  BUR  VTNG  OF  ROME. 


■  i..     i 

t  t  i 


^  w 


same  fierce  efforts  to  escape  by  door  or  window,  with  the  same 
result.  Ronio  had  not  built  a  prison  which  might  be  pulled 
down.  " 

Now  all  the  building  seemed  to  glow  with  the  intense  heat 
that  enclosed  it  from  the  burning  houses,  and  the  roof  burned 
and  fell  in,  communicating  the  fire  to  the  stones  beneath,  and 
the  iron  bars  gi  ew  red-hot.  From  behind  some  of  these  bars 
there  appeared  hideous  faces — faces  of  agony,  v/here  the 
features  were  distorted  by  pain,  and  the  hair  had  fallen  off  at 
the  touch  of  fire,  and  voices  still  called,  in  hoarse  tones,  for 
help,  long  after  all  hope  of  help  had  died  out. 

Then  came  curses,  bitter  and  deep,  on  the  emperor,  on  the 
people,  on  the  state,  and  on  the  gods. 

At  last  the  flames  rolled  on  over  all,  and  the  silent  prison- 
house  showed  only  its  walls,  that  seemed  to  glow  red-hot  amid 
the  conflagration. 

So  the  second  day  passed  into  night,  and  the  night  was 
worse  than  the  day.  The  fire  had  obtained  complete  mastery. 
It  had  extended  itself  in  all  directions,  and  moved  onward  in  a 
wide  path,  as  wide  as  the  city  itself,  so  that  men  as  they  watched 
it  saw  that  all  Rome  was  doomed.  Only  one  thing  could  save 
it — a  change  of  wind,  or  a  rain-storm. 

But  no  rain  came,  and  the  wind  changed  not,  and  through  all 
the  night  the  fires  spread,  over  the  houses,  and  over  the  palaces 
of  nobles,  and  over  the  temples  of  the  gods. 

During  this  time  the  emperor  had  been  at  Antium,  but  when 
the  third  day  came  he  returned  to  Rome.  By  that  time  the 
fire  had  approached  the  gardens  of  the  Imperial  Palace,  and  , 
threatened  to  sweep  over  all  the  trees  and  plants,  and  lay  low 
the  palace  itself  Near  the  palace  were  the  gardens  of  Maecenas, 
and  between  these  two  was  a  building  which  communicated 
with  each,  and  this  building  had  already  fallen  a  prey  to  the 
conflagration.  In  the  gaidens  of  Maecenas  there  was  a  palace, 
on  the  top  of  which  was  a  tower  which  afforded  a  commanding 


\  i        .\t 


i-:! 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


953 


view.     To  this  tower  Nero  went,  and  ascending  it  he  looked 
around. 

For  three  days  the  fires  had  raged,  and  already  a  vast  portion 
of  the  city  had  fallen.     Temples,  towers,  monuments,  the  relics 
of  the  past,  the  records  of  old  triumphs,  had  been  destroyed 
along  with  the  houses  of  the  common  people.     Far  over  the 
city,  from  its  remotest  bounds,  up  to  that  building  which  lay 
between  the  Imperial  Palace  and  these  gardens,  the  work  oi 
destruction  had  extended.     Nero  had  come  there  after  dark, 
either  because  he  could  not  come  before,  or,  as  is  more  prob- 
able, because  he  wished  to  see  the  fine  scenic  effect.     He  had 
what  he  wished  to  his  heart's  content.     The   flames  shone 
brightly  amid  the  gloom,  and  shot  up  fiercely,  and  rolled  on 
over  houses  hitherto  untouched,  finding  new  material  at  every 
stage  of  progress,  and  feeding  itself  on  this.     The  lofty  houses, 
which  in  Rome  arose  to  a  height  unknown  in  other  cities,  made 
a  fire  in  this  city  a  grander  spectacle  than  it  could  be  elsewhere. 
Added  to  this,  there  was  the  outline  of  the  city  itself,  which 
descended  into  valleys  and  rose  up  into  hills.     From  where 
Nero  stood  he  could  see  it  all  to  the  best  advantage.     It  seemed 
like  a  sea  of  fire,  where  billows  of  flame  mingled  with  smoke 
rolled  incessantly  onward,  and  dashed   against  those  loftier 
eminences  that  rose  like  islands  in  the  midst.     Yet  those 
eminences  themselves  did  not  escape,  for  the  fires  clambered 
upward,  and  passing  from  house  to  house,  from   palace  to 
palace,  and  from  temple  to  temple,  covered  all,  till  all  glo'.     ^ 
with  equal  intensity.     The  sky  was  all  ablaze,  and  as  the  wind 
still  blew  with  undiminished  violence,  it  bore  onward  to  the 
north  a  vast  stream  of  glowing  embers,  some  of  which  were  so 
large  that  they  seemed  like  charred  timbers — all  these  swept 
past  incessantly,  and  showers  of  sparks  kept  falling,  and  the 
great  tide  of  cinders  and  ashes  floated  on  for  many  and  many 
a  mile,  till  the  streets  of  Etrurian  villages  received  the  falling 
dust  of  Rome. 


lii 


ir-  !i 


*54 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME, 


i  f 


I     ■%■ 


ij[ 

IIhj  ^ 

li 

^^ 

■It 

(I' 
i; 

Iji , 

j! 

Nero  stood  enrapt  in  deep  admiration.  A  few  friends  were 
with  him,  chief  of  whom  were  Tigellinus  and  Petronius. 

"  It  was  worth  coming  miles  to  see,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  It  is  a  sight  that  can  never  be  seen  again, — a  sight  that  a 
man  may  see,  and  then  die." 

With  such  exclamations  as  these  he  broke  the  silence  from 
time  to  time,  and  stood  motionless  for  many  hours.  At  last 
he  burst  into  tears. 

"  What  grandeur  I "  he  cried.  "  I  am  overcome.  I  feel 
thrills  of  the  true  sublime.  You  are  surprised  at  my  tears,  my 
friends.  I  weep  because  I  think  that  I  can  never  again  see 
anything  equal  to  this." 

HJs  friends  hastened  to  comfort  him.  Tigellinus  assured  him 
that  he  could  have  a  fire  in  every  city  in  the  world,  if  he  wished. 

"  Ah,"  said  Nero,  piteously,  •*  you  forget  that  there  is  only 
one  Rome." 

"  Well,  Rome  can  be  burnt  again." 

**  It  would  hardly  do  to  have  it  too  often,"  said  Nero,  with  a 
sudden  gleam  of  good  sense. 

"  You  are  the  master  of  Rome,  and  of  the  world,"  said 
Tigellinus ;  *'  you  have  only  to  speak  and  it  is  done." 

"True,"  said  Nero;  and  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing.  At 
last  he  turned  away. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  "  let  us  go  to  my  gardens,  to  the  theatre, 
and  there  I  will  sing  for  you  my  ode  on  the  burning  of  Troy. 
You  will  marvel  to  see  how  appropriate  it  is  to  this." 

They  descended,  and  mounting  their  horses,  rode  away. 
The  Vatican  gardens  lay  on  the  other  side  of  the  Tiber,  and 
the  way  there  led  through  several  streets  that  belonged  to  the 
burnt  district.  Nero  was  in  the  highest  spirits.  He  looked 
intently  at  the  smoking  ruins,  and  laughingly  woi;dered  how 
many  inhabitants  remained  there.  "  That  is  a  foolii.h  saying," 
said  he,  **  of  that  poet  who  says, — 

"  '  When  I  am  dead,  let  fire  devour  the  world. 


THE  BURNmC  OF  ROME.  255 

For  my  part,  I  would  cliange  the  line,  and  make  it,— 

"  '  While  I'm  alive,  let  fir«  devour  the  world.'  » 

Isn't  my  improvement  a  good  onel" 

"  The  poet  would  certainly  have  written  it  as  you  suggest," 
said  Tigellinus,  "  if  he  had  seen  this  spectacle." 

Arriving  at  the  gardens,  Nero  went  to  the  theatre,  put  on  his 
scenic  dress,  went  on  the  stage,  tuned  his  harp,  and  sang  the 
ode  which  he  had  written.  His  hearers  gave  him  the  applause 
which  true  courtiers  are  always  reudy  to  bestow ;  now  listening 
apparently  in  rapt  attention,  now  assuming  an  appearance  of 
deep  awe,  and  again,  at  the  end  of  a  strophe,  bursting  forth 
into  irrepressible  applause. 

The  walls  of  the  theatre  were  low,  and  from  the  stage,  which 
looked  toward  the  direction  of  the  city,  the  fire  could  easily  be 
seen  through  the  roofless  top.  Nero  affected  the  manner  of 
one  who  was  inspired,  and  almost  frenzied  by  the  scene  before 
him.  Carried  away  by  his  own  self-complacency,  and  the 
applause  of  his  hearers,  he  sang  the  ode  over  and  over  again, 
each  time  growing  more  extravagant  in  his  gesticulations,  and 
only  ceased  when  fatigue  compelled  him.  H2  would  have 
continued  till  morning,  had  not  Tigellinus  artfully  suggested 
that  his  voice  might  be  injured  by  singing  in  the  night  air,  and 
urged  him  to  reserve  his  powers,  so  as  to  sing  to  them  again 
on  some  other  day. 

So,  while  Rome  was  burning,  the  master  and  ruler  of  Rome 
looked  upon  its  agony,  seeing  in  it  only  a  thing  for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  taste,  not  at  all  a  calamity  that  needed  help  and  pity. 

But  the  calamity  was  so  terrible  that  at  last  the  cries  of  a 
suffering  people  reached  even  his  ears,  and  forced  attention. 

For  already  vast  multitudes  gathered  in  the  more  open 
places  or  in  the  distant  streets — homeless  and  hopeless — a 
gaunt,  ragged,  desperate  crowd  —  fierce,  vindictive — looking 
around  for  some  one  on  whom  to  lay  the  blame  of  all  this,  and 


t 


( 


si    J: 

ii'S 


ii*    H 


M 


'% 


\\\ 


^56 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


V  ^ 


I  f; 


1;  fl?'i<l' 


inflict  vengeance.  In  their  sudden  flight  they  had  taken  little  oi 
nothing  with  them.  All  ordinary  occupations  were  suspended, 
so  that  they  could  earn  nothing,  and  starvation  stared  them  in 
the  face.  Urged  on  by  hunger,  they  had  already  broken  open 
the  public  store-houses  and  helped  themselves  to  whatever  they 
could  find.  From  this  beginning  they  went  on  to  worse 
excesses,  and  vast  crowds  roamed  the  streets,  driving  out 
families  from  their  houses,  and  seizing  all  the  provisions  that 
were  within.  Universal  anarchy  reigned,  and  riot  and  plunder 
and  even  murder  abounded.  In  some  places  bands  of  incen- 
diaries went  about,  setting  fire  to  houses,  and  driving  off  all 
who  tried  to  prevent  them,  declaring  that  they  acted  by  Nero's 
orders,  and  threatening  death  to  all  who  interfered. 

Gradually  the  rumouf  prevailed  that  Nero  had  done  it  all. 
His  infamy  was  known  to  the  people,  and  nothing  was  deemed 
too  vile  for  him.  In  a  short  time  there  was  hardly  a  man  in 
Rome  who  did  not  believe  that  the  fire  was  the  act  of  the 
emperor. 

,  There  is  no  doubt  that  this  desperate  people  would  have 
taken  vengeance  on  the  one  whom  they  believed  to  be  the 
author  of  their  calamities,  if  he  had  not  mitigated  their  wrath 
by  some  well-timed  acts.  He  had  a  hint  of  what  was  said 
about  him.  Among  all  his  desires,  one  of  his  strongest  was 
a  longing  for  popularity.  He  wished  the  people  to  admire 
him.  He  cared  not  so  much  for  the  upper  classes,  but  was 
satisfied  if  they  only  feared  him.  But  to  the  people  and  to  the 
soldiers  he  wished  to  be  popular. 

In  the  midst  of  the  general  distress,  therefore,  he  came  for- 
ward and  made  active  efforts  to  relieve  it.  He  threw  open  to 
the  people  the  Field  of  Mars,  the  grounds  and  buildings  of 
Agrippa,  and  even  his  own  imperial  gardens.  The  vast  extent 
of  these  gave  accommodation  and  shelter  to  great  numbers. 
In  addition  to  this,  he  sent  to  Ostia  for  household  utensils,  and 
tools  of  all  kinds.     The  price  of  grain  was  reduced  to  a  very 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


257 


small  sum,  and  every  effort  was  made  to  relieve,  in  the  quickest 
possible  way,  the  general  misfortune. 

But  while  these  efforts  were  being  made,  the  fire  still  went 
on.  Night  came  again — the  fourth  of  these  fearful  nights — 
and  the  line  of  devastation  extended  itself,  and  spread  onward, 
as  before,  and  rolled  steadily  on  in  one  vivid  mass. 

Two-thirds  of  the  city  had  now  perished,  and  men  looked  for 
the  absolute  and  utter  destruction  of  all  the  rest.  There  was 
the  same  feeling  of  helplessness  and  despair,  yet  there  was  this 
difference,  that  people  had  become  accustomed  to  their  fate, 
and  already  in  those  parts  which  had  been  burned  on  the  first 
day  there  were  many  who  busied  themselves  in  excavating  the 
ruins  of  their  houses,  so  as  to  prepare  for  the  erection  of  new 
ones. 

At  last  men  went  so  far  as  to  think  that  something  might 
even  yet  be  done  to  save  what  remained.  As  long  as  houses 
stood,  houses  must  bum ;  but  if  the  fire  should  come  to  a  place 
where  it  could  encounter  no  houses,  there  it  would  have  to 
stop.  The  remedy,  then,  against  the  fire  that  appeared  before 
the  minds  of  men,  was  to  break  down  the  houses  that  lay  in  its 
way,  and  thus  to  cut  off  the  supply  that  fed  it. 

Gradually  this  idea  passed  from  mind  to  mind,  originating 
no  one  knew  how,  till  the  public  officers  saw  in  it  a  chance  to 
do  something.  On  the  fifth  day,  while  the  fire  was  at  its  height, 
they  began  to  fight  against  it.  Large  bodies  of  the  people  were 
assembled,  and  set  to  work  at  the  task  of  demolition.  All  the 
soldiers  in  the  city  were  summoned,  and  did  the  chief  part  of 
the  work.  The  battering-ram  crashed  against  the  side  of  many 
a  lofty  mansion,  and  the  soldiers,  from  their  campaign  experi- 
ence, showed  themselves  as  able  to  work  against  the  houses  of 
Rome  as  against  the  walls  of  beleaguered  cities.  A  line  was 
traced,  for  the  purpose  of  arresting  the  flames,  and  on  this  line 
everything  in  the  shape  of  a  building  was  assailed. 

The  immense  multitude  that  worked  at  this  soon  made  their 


\   I 


I 


\% 


fr.    ,•; 


(188) 


17 


"■■m 


258 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


power  felt.  Along  the  whole  line  thus  marked  out  for  d  struc- 
tion  bodies  of  men  worked  with  the  battering-ram  and  the  axe 
and  the  lever,  levelling  all  things,  houses  and  sacred  fanes,  and 
noble  halls,  in  one  common  ruin.  So  vigorous  was  the  work, 
that  in  about  twenty-four  hours  it  was  all  accomplished.  They 
began  at  noon  on  the  fifth  day,  and  worked  all  night,  each  party 
being  relieved  by  others,  until  noon  on  the  sixth  day. 

On  that  sixth  day  the  flames  reached  the  open  space,  and 
could  go  no  further.  To  the  excited  spectators  it  seemed  as 
though  this  fire  were  a  living  thing,  as  it  raged  along  the  line 
of  defence  that  man  had  formed  against  it,  for  it  threw  out  its 
forked  arms  of  flame,  and  attached  itself  to  beams  and  ruined 
wood-work,  and  sought  to  creep  among  the  debris  of  the  fallen 
houses.  But  the  barrier  was  effectual,  and  the  Romans  saw  at 
last  that  some  portion  of  the  city  was  saved. 

But  safety  was  not  yet  secure.  On  the  other  side  of  that 
barrier  the  fire  glowed,  no  longer  casting  its  flames  on  high, 
but  fierce,  and  sullen,  and  intense  in  its  heat,  a  wrathful  enemy, 
still  menacing,  and  still  formidable.  Multitudes  of  men  stood 
on  guard,  and  as  night  came  on  the  guard  was  more  vigilantly 
kept,  and  lines  of  men  were  formed  who  might  pass  water  from 
the  nearest  fountains  to  extinguish  any  sudden  blaze. 

The  flames  had  been  arrested  at  the  foot  of  the  Esquiline.  On 
the  other  side  stood  Labeo's  house,  on  the  slope  overlooking 
the  fire.  From  that  house  the  inmates  had  watched  the  confla- 
gration through  all  the  days  and  nights  of  its  progress.  Labeo 
had  not  been  idle.  He  had  assisted  the  unfortunate,  and 
found  shelter  and  food  for  them.  He  had  also  directed  bands 
of  workmen  during  the  last  day  and  night.  Among  those  who 
watched  on  this  night  was  Galdus,  whom  Labeo  had  sent  there 
for  that  purpose ;  and  all  the  other  servants  of  the  house  were 
there  also. 

Cineas  had  exerted  himself  as  diligently  as  any  one  in  the 
general  calamity.     He  had  gone  about  seeking  after  the  parents 


i      1/ 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


259 


of  the  wandering  children,  with  whom  the  streets  were  filled, 
and  distributing  provisions  to  the  destitute.  He  had  applied  to 
Nero  for  permission  to  execute  his  commands,  and  Nero  had 
laughingly  consented,  saying,  that  for  a  philosopher  he  could 
see  nothing  more  appropriate,  since  it  was  a  practical  effort  to 
attain  the  summum  bonum.  He  had  accordingly  gone  to  Ostia, 
and  to  other  neighbouring  cities,  and  his  exertions  contributed 
not  a  little  to  the  general  relief.  On  this  night  he  was  away  on 
his  usual  business. 

Labeo  went  to  bed,  wearied  and  worn  out  with  excessive  toil. 
All  seemed  safe,  and  he  expected  sound  slumbers.  Helena, 
too,  who  had  shared  the  general  excitement  to  a  painful  degree, 
went  to  sleep  without  fear.  For  the  first  time  in  many  days 
and  rights,  they  prepared  for  a  night's  rest,  and  retired,  not 
thinking  what  would  be  their  awakening. 

All  the  servants  had  been  sent  away,  except  one  or  two  who 
remained  in  the  house.  These  were  as  weary  as  any  others. 
Marcus  usually  slept  at  a  distance  from  his  parents,  and  Galdus 
always  lay  in  an  adjoining  room.  Two  female  servants  slept  in 
the  same  room  with  Marcus. 

Thus  Labeo  and  all  his  household  gave  themselves  up  to 
deep  sleep — a  sleep  that  fatigue  had  made  most  profound,  and 
a  feeling  of  safety  made  undisturbed. 

But  while  they  slept  the  enemy  had  crept  beyond  the  barrier; 
how,  no  one  knew ;  where,  no  one  could  tell. 

But  it  came — suddenly,  fiercely,  terribly. 

In  a  short  time  the  house  of  Labeo  was  all  ablaze,  and 
flamed  up  brightly,  creating  a  new  panic  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  had  recovered  in  some  sort  from  their  consternation.  The 
wide  porticoes,  the  lofty  balconies,  and  the  long  galleries, 
afforde':^  a  free  passage  to  the  devouring  flames,  which  now 
rioted  in  the  beginning  of  a  new  destruction. 

At  midnight  Labeo  was  aroused  by  a  shriek  from  his  wife. 
He  started  up.     Flames  were  all  around.     His  first  thought 


'■*! 


f: 


i 


I  ill 


,0 
6t 


t 


260 


r//£  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


was  of  his  boy.  He  rushed  out  of  the  room  toward  the  place 
where  Marcus  slept,  but  the  flames  stood  before  him  and  drove 
him  back.  The  shrieks  of  Helena  called  his  attention  to  her. 
She  was  paralyzed  by  fear. 

Labeo  seized  her  in  his  arms,  and  rushed  down  the  hall  in 
another  direction,  while  the  flames  burst  through  the  doors  on 
either  side,  and  at  last  emerged  into  the  open  air. 

Helena  thought  only  of  Marcus.  She  called  his  name  in 
piercing  tones.  Labeo  put  her  down,  but  she  rushed  wildly 
back  into  the  house,  and  stood,  repelled  by  the  flames,  but  .still 
shrieking  for  her  son. 

Labeo's  frenzy  was  equal  to  hers. 

He  looked  around  to  see  if  by  chance  his  son  had  escaped. 
There  was  no  one  to  be  seen.  He  looked  toward  the  window 
of  the  room  where  his  son  was.  The  flames  were  all  around  it; 
another  brief  space  and  all  would  be  over. 

Yet,  what  could  he  do  ?  The  house  arose  before  him,  sur- 
rounded with  lofty  pillared  porticoes.  There  was  no  way  by  which 
he  could  get  to  that  room  of  his  son.  He  caught  at  the  pillar 
and  tried  to  climb,  but  could  do  nothing.  In  his  despair  he 
lifted  up  his  head  and  cursed  the  gods. 

Helena  came  rushing  out,  driven  back  by  the  flames,  and 
seeing  her  husband's  despair,  fell  down  senseless  on  the  ground. 

But  now  appeared  a  sight  that  drove  Labeo  to  the  verge  of 
madness. 

Suddenly,  amid  the  flames  that  lifted  up  their  billowy  heads 
on  the  roof,  in  a  place  which  was  threatened  but  not  yet  touched 
— gliding  along  like  a  ghost,  surrounded  by  fire  which  advanced 
on  both  sides — there  came  a  fair,  slender  form — a  boy — who 
advanced  toward  the  very  edge  of  the  roof. 

It  was  Marcus. 

He  stood  firmly,  and  looked  down.  But  the  depth  was  too 
great.     To  descend  was  impossible  ;  to  leap  down  was  death. 

Then  he  turned  around  and  looked  at  the  flames. 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


261 


of 


Labeo  groaned  in  his  agony.  Again  and  again  he  tried  to 
grasp  the  tall  pillar  in  his  arms,  and  climb  up,  but  he  could  do 
nothing.  ' 

Marcus  stood  and  looked  all  around  him  at  the  flames.  His 
face  had  a  calm  and  fearless  expression.  He  trembled  not, 
but  folded  his  arms  and  gazed  steadily,  and  without  flinching, 
on  the  face  of  death. 

A  wild  wail  arose  from  the  stricken  heart  of  that  despairing 
father. 

"Oh,  my  boy!" 

The  agony  of  love  and  despair  that  was  uttered  in  this  cry 
roused  Marcus.  He  looked  down.  He  saw  his  father.  With 
a  sad  smile  he  waved  his  little  arm. 

"Farewell,  father!" 

A  pang  of  sharper  grief  shot  through  Labeo.  Was  this  the 
timid  child  who  had  shuddered  in  the  amphitheatre?  The 
father  now  understood  him,  and  knew  the  meaning  of  that 
calm  glance. 

But  all  this  was  unendurable. 

Labeo  shrieked  back  words  of  love  and  despair.  He  called 
on  his  boy  to  throw  himself  down  in  his  arms. 

Marcus  looked  down,  and  then  again  with  the  same  sad 
smile  shook  his  head. 

"  Farewell,  father.     Weep  not.    We  will  meet  again." 

And  there  was  a  strange  confidence  in  his  tone  that  pierced 
Labeo  with  a  new  sorrow. 

He  rushed  forward  ;  he  struck  madly  at  the  stone  pillars  \  he 
dashed  his  head  against  them. 

But  now  there  came  the  sound  of  footsteps,  and  a  man  darted 
past,  swift  as  the  wind,  to  where  the  portico  terminated.  Here 
at  one  end  the  projecting  cornice  ceased,  and  there  was  nothing 
overhanging.  The  man  knew  the  place,  for  he  stopped  not  to 
look. 

It  was  Galdus. 


\ 


i        !l 


IP; 


Nl 


m 


S<\ 


i. 


263 


ThE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


i  . 


m 


Flinging  Ins  arms  iround  the  pillar,  he  clambered  up  r-ipidly 
to  a  great  height,  and  then,  grasping  the  balustrade  of  the 
balcony,  he  drew  himself  up  over  the  place  which  was  free 
from  the  cornice.  There  was  yet  another  portico,  a  second 
story,  and  up  this  the  Briton  clambered  as  quickly  and  as 
rapidly  as  before. 

Labeo,  who  had  started  at  the  sound  of  footsteps,  had  scarcely 
recovered  his  senses  before  he  saw  Galdus  on  the  roof  of  the 
topmost  portico,  and  close  to  Marcus. 

His  heart  beat  with  fearful  throbs.  Safety  for  his  boy  seemed 
near,  but  yet  what  danger  lay  before  him. 

How  could  this  Briton  get  down  again  1 

Already  the  flames  were  close  upon  Marcus.  He  stood  on 
the  roof,  which  rose  abqut  ten  feet  above  the  top  of  the  upper 
portico.  Galdus  called  to  him  to  leap  down.  The  boy  obeyed 
at  once,  and  was  caught  in  the  arms  of  the  Briton. 

But  the  flames  were  all  around.  Galdus  had  run  through 
them  to  get  to  the  boy.  He  would  have  to  run  through  them 
again  to  get  back. 

But  he  had  made  up  his  plan ;  and  part  of  his  plan  was  that 
the  flames  should  not  harm  so  much  as  a  hair  of  that  boy's  head. 

Standing  there,  he  tore  off  his  tunic,  and  hastily  wrapped  it 
around  the  boy  so  that  it  covered  all  his  head.  He  then  took 
a  leathern  girdle,  which  he  usually  wore  about  his  waist,  and 
fastened  Marcus  to  his  back.  Then  making  him  twine  his 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  bidding  him  hold  on  tightly,  he  pre- 
pared to  return. 

The  flames  had  already  overspread  the  place  where  he  had 
just  passed,  though  but  a  few  moments  had  elapsed.  But 
Galdus  did  not  hesitate  an  instant. 

He  bounded  into  the  middle  of  the  flames.  Scorched  and 
burnt,  he  emerged  at  that  angle  of  the  portico  up  which  he  had 
lately  clambeied.  In  another  instant  he  had  thrown  himseH 
over,  and,  clinging  with  feet  and  hands,  began  the  descent. 


I 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


263 


Another  man's  limbs  would  have  been  unequal  to  the  effort; 
but  Galdus  in  his  forest  life  had  been  trained  to  climbing  up 
trees,  'p  precipices,  and  over  giddy  summits  of  ocean  cliffs. 
His  nerves  were  like  iron,  and  his  muscles  firm.  Nerve  and 
muscle  were  needed  to  the  utmost  of  their  power,  and  they 
failed  not  in  the  trial. 

Lower  and  lower,  and  nearer  and  nearer  came  Gailus, 
bringing  the  boy  to  that  aching  heart  below.  At  last  he 
descended  the  column  of  the  lower  portico;  he  touched  the 
ground;  he  stood  with  his  precious  burden  before  Labeo. 

Labeo  spoke  not  a  word.  With  trembling  hands  he  seized 
the  boy,  and  sat  down  and  pressed  him  to  his  heart.  Then 
there  came  a  mighty  revulsion  of  feeling;  and,  bowing  his  head, 
the  stern  Roman  wept  over  his  child,  as  though  he  himself  were 
a  child. 

"Father,"  said  Marcus,  "I  would  have  died  Uke  a  Roman; 
I  was  not  afraid." 

Labeo  pressed  the  boy  closer  to  his  heart. 

But  at  this  moment  another  thing  aroused  him. 

Galdus  had  stood  without  moving,  breathing  heavily,  and 
gasping  for  breath.  The  triumph  that  was  on  his  face  could 
not  altogether  hide  the  agony  that  he  suffered.  Suddenly  he 
gave  a  deep  groan  and  fell  to  the  ground. 

Marcus  screamed,  and,  tearing  himself  from  his  father's  arms, 
rushed  to  his  preserver.  Labeo  followed,  and  bending  over 
the  prostrate  form,  he  was  horrified  to  see  what  appeared  there. 

The  long  hair  and  heavy  beard  of  Galdus,  which  usually  gave 
him  such  a  lordly  barbaric  air,  had  been  scorched  off  by  the 
flames.  His  naked  body,  which  he  had  exposed  for  the  sake 
of  Marcus,  was  burnt  terribly;  his  arms  and  breast,  which  had 
endured  the  worst,  were  fiery  red;  and  his  hands  were  blackened 
and  the  fingers  bleeding. 

Marcus  flung  himself  on  the  inanimate  form,  and  wept 
bitterly. 


J 


!  f ^ 


. 


'1  , 


i 


11 


■'A      I     J 


H     r 


364 


7y/£  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


*'  Help,  father.  Haste,  or  he  will  die.  Oh  !  he  is  dying  for 
my  sake;  my  noble,  dear  Galdus !     Have  I  killed  youT' 

Labeo  looked  around  for  help.  At  this  moment  a  crowd 
hurried  into  the  gates,  Isaac  was  at  their  head.  The  aged 
Eubulu    followp  '. 

Labe-  ^'  •  urriedly,  "  Let  some  of  the  men  take  him  up 
and  folio. '  >  > 

He  then  .dsten  -  to  where  Helena  yet  lay,  and  carrying 
her  to  a  fountain,  dashed  water  in  her  face.  It  was  long  before 
she  revived.  At  last  she  came  to  herself,  and  looking  up  saw 
her  husband  and  boy. 

Clasping  her  arms  around  the  child,  whom  she  had  given  up 
for  lost,  she  closed  her  eyes  and  breathed  her  thanks  to  Heaven. 

"How  have  you  saved  himl"  she  cried,  eagerly. 

"  Not  now.  I  will  tell  all  about  it  afterA^ards,"  said  Labeo. 
"  Now  we  must  go  away.  Our  house  is  gone.  We  must  go  to 
the  villa." 

A  litter  was  made  for  Galdus,  and  they  carried  him  tenderly 
along.  Labeo  carried  his  boy,  and  Helena  walked  by  his  side. 
Eubulus  and  Lydia  accompanied  them,  for  Labeo  had  urged 
them,  and  had  promised  them  a  home  in  his  villa.  They  had 
slept  in  the  furthest  wing  of  the  building,  and  were  aroused  by 
the  glare  of  the  flames;  but  as  the  rooms  were  on  the  lowest 
floor,  and  quite  distant  from  the  flames,  they  escaped  without 
difficulty. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Esquiline,  Labeo  stopped  at  the 
house  of  a  friend  of  his  whom  he  had  been  intimate  with  in 
Britain,  Agricola,  who  hurried  out  and  eagerly  received  his 
friend.  His  house  and  grounds  were  filled  with  poor  fugitives, 
whom  he  was  feeding  and  sheltering.  When  he  heard  of  Galdus, 
what  he  had  done,  and  how  he  had  done  it,  he  gave  orders  for 
his  careful  treatment,  and  Isaac  went  oft"  to  attend  him. 

After  a  time  Isaac  returned,  and  Labeo  walked  out  on  the 
portico  with  him. 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


265 


''HowisGaldusI" 

"  Terribly  scorched,  but  not  deeply  burned.  He  will  suffer 
greatly  for  a  few  hours,  but  in  two  or  three  weeks  he  will  be 
able  to  go  about  again."  / 

"  Take  care  of  him,"  said  Labeo.  **  Take  the  same  care  ol 
him  that  you  would  of  me.  Without  him  what  would  I  be 
now  ]    He  has  saved  all  our  lives  in  saving  Marcus." 

"  He  shall  have  all  the  care  that  I  can  give,"  said  Isaac, 
gravely. 

"I  cannot  understand  it,"  said  Labeo.  "Whv  sh  'd  my 
house  catch  fire  by  itself  1    And  how  did  it  blaz 0  \^\  s,o  -oon  ?" 

**  It  did  not  catch  fire,"  said  Isaac,  with  a  dv  :\}  oii:  ming. 

"  How,  then  %    What  do  you  mean  1" 

"  I  think  it  was  set  on  fire." 

"Set  on  fire!" 

"Yes." 

"  Who  would  dare  to  do  it  1  Rome  is  full  of  marauders,  1 
know,  and  my  house  was  not  guarded ;  but  still  I  cannot  con- 
ceive how  any  one  would  dare  to  do  such  a  deed." 

"  There  is  one  who  would  dare  it." 

"Who?" 

"  A  bitter  enemy  of  yours." 

"  What  bitter  enemy  have  I  ? "  asked  Labeo,  in  surprise. 

"  One  who  has  sworn  deep  vengeance  against  you." 

"  His  name  1 "  asked  Labeo. 

"  Hegio." 

"  Hegio  ! "  cried  Labeo,  in  amazement.  "  Would  that  ac- 
cursed villain  dare  to  think  even  of  such  a  thing  ? " 

"That  accursed  villain,"  said  Isaac,  "hates  you  so  bitterly 
that  he  would  dare  anything  for  vengeance." 

Labeo  said  nothing,  but  stood  lost  in  astonishment  at  this 
intelligence.     At  last  he  asked, — 

"  But  how  do  you  know  1 " 

"I  did  not  see  him  set  the  house  on  fire,"  said  Isaac;  "but 


lull 


y\V. 


■\\ 


266 


rilE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


1 


If 


;!■ 


1 1  ' 

I 


''  n: 


oncp  or  twice  during  the  last  two  days  I  saw  him  prowling 
around,  evidently  trying  to  see  what  was  going  on,  and  bent  on 
mischief.  I  would  have  watched  him  and  prevented  him,  but 
I  was  ordered  away,  to  guard  the  fire,  with  the  rest  of  the 
household." 

**  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  this  before  ?" 

'*  IJecause  I  thought  you  would  laugh  at  my  suspicions." 

"  You  were  right — I  would  have  done  so.  Even  now  I  am 
slow  to  believe  them  well  founded." 

*'  He  is  the  only  man  living  who  would  have  any  motive." 

"  True,"  said  Labeo,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

"  Beside  this,  I  know  that  for  very  many  months,  ever  since 
you  dismissed  him,  he  has  been  intent  on  vengeance." 

"  How  do  you  know  this  1 " 

*'  My  people,"  said  Isaac,  "  know  many  things  that  are  going 
on  in  the  world.  They  mingle  with  various  classes,  and  in 
their  association  with  one  another  many  things  are  spoken  of. 
In  making  inquiries  among  them  about  Hegio,  I  have  found 
out  many  things:  that  he  has  accused  you  of  injustice  and  ill- 
treatment  of  himself;  that  he  has  openly  vowed  vengeance;  and 
that  during  the  last  few  months  he  has  boasted  that  he  had  a 
new  patron  who  would  help  him  to  his  vengeance." 

"A  new  patron  !" 

"  Yes." 

"  Who  r 

"  Tigellinus." 

"  Tigellinus !  That  is  what  Cineas  spoke  of,"  said  Labeo, 
musingly.  "  I  thought  nothing  of  it,  but  this  appears  danger- 
ous now.  Do  you  think,  Isaac,  that  Tigellinus  sent  him  to  set 
fire  to  my  house  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Isaac ;  "  on  the  contrary,  I  think  that  Hegio  did 
this  of  his  own  accord." 

'*  But  how  can  it  be  proved  against  him  \  Who  saw  him  do 
it  1" 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


267 


"No  one." 

"  It  can't  be  proved  then." 

"  No."  i 

"  It  is  only  a  suspicion." 

«•  That  is  ill." 

"  Possibly  the  suspicion  may  be  unfounded,"  said  Labeo ; 
•*  but  I  believe  you  are  right,  and  I  thank  you,  Isaac,  for  your 
fidelity.  Keep  on  watching,  and  let  me  know,  from  time  to 
time,  what  you  hear." 

Labeo  was  more  troubled  by  this  intelligence  than  he  cared 
to  acknowledge ;  but  soon  other  things  occupied  his  thoughts, 
chief  among  which  was  his  removal  to  the  villa.  Cineas  joined 
them  in  a  day  or  two,  and  prepared  to  accompany  them. 

The  last  fire  had  not  been  so  wide  extended  as  was  feared. 
The  Esquiline  and  the  neighbouring  districts  were  thimy  settled, 
the  houses  being  separated  by  gardens,  so  that  after  : aging  for 
a  day  or  so  it  died  out.  But  many  houses  were  neveitheless 
consumed,  and  Labeo  lost  all  that  was  in  his  own  mansion. 

Sulpicia  received  them  at  the  villa  with  eager  welcome,  ai;d 
all  were  glad  to  get  away  from  the  painful  scenes  of  the  city. 
Cineas  went  back  in  a  day  or  two,  and  resumed  his  occupation. 

Eubulus  and  Lydia  were  made  welcome  there,  and  Helena, 
by  her  Christian  sympathy,  made  them  feel  content  to  stay  there 
for  a  time.  There,  too,  Julius  became  a  frequent  visitor,  and 
Lydia  seemed  to  live  in  a  new  world.  The  villa  of  Labeo 
seemed  splendid  beyond  description,  to  her  eyes,  and  the 
presence  of  Julius  threw  a  charm  over  all. 

Meanwhile  Galdus  had  slowly  recovered,  under  the  watchful 
care  of  Isaac.  His  most  constant  attendant  was  Marcus,  as 
fond  and  as  faithful  as  ever ;  and  Galdus  listened  with  greedy 
ears  to  the  loving  words  of  the  boy,  to  whom  his  heart  clung 
with  such  fondness.  The  boy  thought  most  of  all  about  the 
devotion  of  Galdus,  and  his  sufferings  for  his  sake,  and  next  to 
this  he  referred,  with  not  unnatural  pride,  to  his  own  behaviour. 


a68 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


*    .T: 


lllfi 


"  My  father  thought  I  was  a  coward,  because  I  shuddered  so 
to  see  men  killed,"  said  he,  still  remembering,  in  his  sensitive- 
ness, the  scenes  of  the  amphitheatre  ;  "  but  I  am  not  a  coward, 
— am  I,  Galdus  ?    Did  I  fear  death  when  the  fire  came  1" 

And  Galdus  assured  him  over  and  over  again  that  he  was 
the  boldest  of  boys,  and  the  most  heroic,  and  was  brave  enough 
to  be  a  Briton, — that  bei/g  the  highest  conception  of  bravery 
which  Galdus  had. 

In  several  weeks'  time  the  Briton  had  recovered,  as  Isaac 
had  prophesied. 

One  day  Labeo  summoned  him. 

"  Galdus,"  said  he,  "  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever  repay. 
I  will  make  a  beginning  toward  repayment  now.  First  of  all, — 
you  are  free." 

Then,  as  Galdus  spoke  his  acknowledgments,  but  with  rather 
less  joy  than  Labeo  expected,  he  said, — 

"  In  addition  to  this,  I  will  send  you  to  your  own  country." 

Galdus  looked  on  the  ground. 

"  When  do  you  want  to  go  1 " 

'*  I  do  not  want  to  go." 

'*  What !  do  you  not  wish  to  return  to  your  native  country  1" 

"  No,"  said  Galdus,  passionately.  "  Why  should  1 1  All  are 
dead, —  father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters,  wife,  children,  all. 
Galdus  is  alone  in  the  world.  All  that  I  love  is  here.  Wife, 
and  children,  and  father,  and  mother,  are  all  alive  for  me  in 
Marcus.  He  is  more.  He  is  my  God.  Do  you  thank  me 
for  risking  my  life  for  him  ] — know  that  1  would  lay  down  a 
hundred  lives,  and  rejoice  to  do  it.  If  you  give  me  my  free- 
dom, noble  master,  I  will  take  it ;  but  if  I  must  leave  you,  I 
will  refuse  it.  The  only  liberty  that  I  want  is  liberty  to  be  near 
Marcus.     Grant  me  that.     It  is  reward  enough." 

The  Briton  spoke  this  in  rude,  impetuous  words,  but  the  deep 
love  that  he  showed  for  Marcus  appeared  in  all  that  he  said. 
Labeo  rose,  and  took  his  hand  in  both  his. 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME. 


269 


"  Brave  Briton,"  said  he,  "  you  were  a  noble  in  your  own 
country.  Be  free.  Be  my  equal.  Do  as  you  choose.  I  am 
no  more  your  master,  but  your  friend."  '  i 

"  You  are  the  father  of  Marcus,"  said  Galdus,  as  his  great 
breast  heaved  with  emotion ;  "  I  will  be  either  your  friend,  or 
your  slave,  or  both." 

And  so  Galdu.s  was  made  free. 


s 


XXIV. 


Mm 


ii'f 


Cfec  Jjtrst  |]trscmfioit. 


iS!    !|-,. 


FTER  the  fire,  the  dty  was  rebuilt  on  a  new  plan, 
with  wider  streets,  and  houses  of  less  height.  Nero 
began  to  erect  his  Golden  House,  where  wealth 
and  luxury  unimagined  before  were  all  accumulated. 

But  in  the  bustle  and  business  of  work  the  people  did  not 
forget  the  great  calamity,  nor  did  they  readily  lose  the  suspicion 
which  they  had  formed  about  the  author.  Nero  felt  that  this 
general  suspicion  hung  like  a  fateful  cloud  impending  over  him  ; 
a  thunder-cloud,  which  might  burst  at  any  moment,  and  hurl 
him  from  his  throne.  It  could  not  be  trifled  with,  nor  could  it 
be  forgotten  as  an  idle  care. 

He  sought  now  at  all  hazard  to  divert  suspicion  from  himself, 
and  looked  around  for  those  whom  he  might  safely  charge  with 
the  guilt  that  the  world  attributed  to  him. 

His  thoughts  at  length  were  directed  toward  the  Christians. 
They  had  been  gradually  increasing  in  number  for  years,  and 
although  they  formed  but  a  small  proportion  of  the  population, 
there  were  yet  enough  to  excite  remark. 

In  this  age,  and  through  later  times,  it  was  always  the  fate 
of  the  Christians  to  be  misunderstood.  Often  afterward  it 
happened,  in  different  parts  of  the  world,  that  when  public 
calanuties  occurred,  the  populace  laid  the  blame  to  these  inno- 
cent and  unoffending  people,  and  cruelly  took  vengeance  for 
an  imaginary  offence.     And  now  there  occurred  the  first  and 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


2'J\ 


most  conspicuous  example  of  unmerited  suffering  endured  by 
these  men. 

Certain  things  in  the  life  and  manners  of  the  Christians  ex- 
cited suspicion  in  the  mind  of  a  superstitious  populace.  Their 
language  and  phraseology  were  misinterpreted.  They  spoke  of 
Christ  as  their  king  ;  of  a  kingdom  that  was  not  of  this  world  j 
and  this  the  ignorant  multitude  took  as  a  sort  of  treason  against 
the  emperor.  They  met  in  secret  assemblies,  where  it  was 
reported  that  they  indulged  in  the  worst  vices  among  them- 
selves. The  mysterious  repast  which  they  celebrated  in  memory 
of  their  dying  Lord  was  particularly  suspected.  A  report  pre- 
vailed that  at  this  repast  they  fed  on  human  flesh  and  drank 
human  blood, — a  strange  perversion  of  that  symbolical  rite 
which  represented  by  bread  and  wine  the  body  and  blood  ot 
the  Saviour.  When  Carbo  inveighed  against  the  Christians,  he 
only  repeated  the  popular  opinion.  They  came  from  Syria,  or 
rather  their  religion  came  from  that  quarter,  and  as  Syria  was 
the  well-known  source  of  all  the  worst  vices  and  most  abject 
superstitions  of  the  time,  it  is,  perhaps,  not  wonderful  that  the 
Roman  was  led  to  suspect  Christianity  of  being  like  the  Syrian 
religions  of  which  he  had  heard  and  seen  so  much. 

Under  these  circumstances  Nero  determined  to  sacrifice 
these  innocent  but  suspected  men  to  the  popular  fury.  His 
agents  went  everywhere  whispering  charges  against  them,  and 
filling  the  public  mind  with  ideas  of  their  guilt.  The  feeling 
grew  stronger  and  stronger;  the  name  of  Christian  became 
abhorrent :  and  some  of  those  who  were  known  to  belong  to 
that  faith  wt-re  mobbed  in  the  streets  by  the  furious  populace. 

The  little  flock  saw  the  storm  coming,  and  trembled.  They 
knew  that  something  terrible  impended,  and  took  counsel 
together  as  to  the  best  way  in  which  to  meet  it.  But  no  way 
appeared,  and  so  they  made  up  their  minds  to  meet  the  worst, 
whatever  it  might  be.  Some  of  those  who  had  known  a  larger 
experience,  exhorted  the  younger  members  to  be  firm,  and,  even 


I  \ 


i\ 


SI. 

VI-,.; 
'  K  t 


n 


\ 


% 

:  I'm 
111 


»  I 


II 


V  '■    ■ 

', 

It   -' 

iii 

ir:i:;t 


2J2 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


5) 


\m 


ill 


if  death  should  come,  to  give  up  their  lives  boldly  for  him  who 
gave  his  life  for  them. 

At  last  the  storm  burst.  The  emperor's  proclamation  ap 
peared,  in  which  a  direct  charge  was  made  against  them  that 
they  had  burned  the  city ;  and  orders  were  issued  for  the  arrest 
of  all  who  worshipped  Christ.  Many  people  were  shocked  at 
this  undeserved  accusation.  The  more  intelligent  believed  that 
it  was  a  trick  of  Nero's  to  keep  suspicion  from  himself,  and 
looked  upon  it  as  but  one  of  his  many  atrocities ;  but  the 
larger  number  of  the  unthinking  people  accepted  the  charge  as 
a  fact,  and  clamoured  for  the  blood  of  the  Christians  as  eagerly 
as  the  Jews  once  clamoured  for  that  of  Christ. 

The  Christians  waited  for  the  first  blow,  and  did  not  have  to 
wait  long.  A  descent  was  made  by  the  officials  of  the  govern- 
ment upon  four  of  their  assemblies  at  the  same  time,  and  all 
without  exception  were  carried  off  and  thrown  into  prison  to 
await  their  doom. 

A  mockery  of  a  trial  was  then  begun.  A  set  of  abandoned 
wretches  came  forward  at  the  instigation  of  the  emperor,  con- 
fessed themselves  Christians,  swore  to  all  the  abominable 
crimes  which  were  usually  attributed  to  these,  and  affirmed  that 
they  and  the  rest  of  the  Christians  had  set  fire  to  the  city,  and 
afterwards  had  kept  it  going. 

Upon  the  strength  of  this,  the  Christians  were  condemned  to 
die.  An  offer  was  made  that  those  of  the  women  who  abjured 
their  faith  might  be  spared,  but  none  were  found  who  accepted 
this. 

A  terrific  punishment  was  then  prepared  for  them.  It  owed 
its  origin  to  the  ingenuity  of  the  emperor,  who  said  that  they 
who  had  caused  the  death  of  so  many  by  fire,  ought  them- 
selves to  perish  in  the  same  way,  for  then  only  would  the 
penalty  be  commensurate  with  the  crime.  He  determined, 
while  punishing  the  Christians,  to  amuse  the  populace  also,  and 
turn  the  scene  of  execution  into  a  great  public  spectacle.     The 


M'i 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


273 


sight  of  their  sufferings  would  convince  the  unthinking  specta- 
tors of  their  guilt ;  and  the  novel  circumstances  of  the  scene 
would  have  a  mixture  of  grandeur  and  horror  that  would  make 
him  popular  with  the  common  people. 

The  place  selected  for  their  punishment  was  the  Imperial 
Gardens  on  the  Vatican  Hill,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river ; 
the  same  place  where  Nero  had  sung  while  Rome  was  burning. 

The  scene  was  worthy  of  Nero.  Hundreds  of  stakes  were 
driven  into  the  ground  at  certain  intervals  along  the  avenues 
and  walks.  To  each  of  these  a  Christian  was  bound  firmly 
with  chains.  Each  unhappy  victim  was  wrapped  from  head  to 
foot  in  a  thick  garment,  formed  of  coarse  cloth  in  various  layers, 
saturated  with  pitch.     Fagots  were  heaped  around  their  feet. 

The  unhappy  ones  awaited  their  doom  with  different  feelings. 
In  some  there  might  be  seen  the  triumph  of  Christian  faith  ; 
but  in  many,  weak  human  nature  was  evident.  Of  these,  some 
were  stupified  with  horror ;  others  implored  mercy  from  the 
emperor,  from  the  guards,  and  from  the  populace.  Yet  it  de- 
serves to  be  noted,  that  among  all  these  not  one  offered  to 
abjure  the  Christian  faith. 

Here  were  people  of  both  sexes  and  of  all  ages  involved  in 
the  common  suffering.  Old  men  were  there,  whose  venerable 
faces  and  reverend  locks,  and  long  white  beards  defiled  by 
pitch,  gave  additional  horror  to  a  horrid  scene.  Young 
maidens  were  there,  innocent  and  pure,  guilty  of  no  crime, 
and  their  pale,  fearful  faces  might  have  excited  pity  in  any 
population  less  hardened  than  that  of  Rome.  There  was  none 
to  save  them.  So  all  alike,  young  and  old,  cast  their  thoughts 
to  Him  who  was  able  to  save. 

On  this  evening,  th?  time  of  the  first  punishment,  Nero  was 
in  high  spirits.  He  congratulated  himself  on  his  own  ingenuity 
in  thus  devising  a  plan  of  punishment  that  was  at  once  com- 
mensurate with  the  crime  of  the  convicted,  and  at  the  same 
time  would  give  a  new  sensation  to  the  Romans,  who  so  loved 

U83)  i« 


274 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


ii»- 


novelty.     He  had  arranged  that  the  people  should  be  admitted, 
and  then,  at  a  given  signal,  the  torches  should  be  applied. 

Nero  had  often  thrown  open  his  gardens  to  the  people,  but 
never  under  such  circumstances  as  these.  He  had  torches  pro- 
vided of  a  novel  description.  The  illumination  which  he  had 
provided  for  the  scene  was  the  burning  victims  of  his  hellish 
cruelty. 

Dressed  as  a  charioteer,  the  emperor  drove  round  and  round 
the  winding  walks,  exhibiting  his  skill  to  the  crowd,  and  c.  Joy- 
ing their  applause.  He  continued  this  till  darkness  came,  and 
his  fine  performances  could  no  longer  be  appreciated. 

Vast  numbers  came.  Curiosity  attracted  most ;  others  came 
from  a  sort  of  cruel  desire  to  see  sufiering  under  the  ir/in:  '  liate 
management  of  one  who  was  skilled  in  inflicting  it  The 
gardens  were  thronged  by  the  populace  of  Rome, — men,  women, 
and  children.  They  stood  gazing  with  a  kind  of  awful  expecta- 
tion upon  the  forms  cf  the  victims  fixed  at  their  several  .stakes, 
and  awaiting  the  signal  which  should  announce  .heir  dojm. 

At  last  the  signal  was  piven. 

At  once,  to  hundredj  o^  ;.^^es  of  fagots,  heaped  around 
hundreds  of  stakes,  ilie  torches  v-ere  applied,  and  the  flames 
rushed  quickly  over  the  rtihijus  wood,  and  up  the  pitchy  gar- 
ments of  the  victims  at  the  stake.  A  wild  red  light  illuminated 
the  frightful  scene.  The  gardens  glowed  luridly  with  this  terri- 
fic illumination,  and  the  glare  rose  up  high  in  the  air,  till  those 
who  had  remained  in  the  city  looked  across  the  Tiber,  and  saw 
with  awful  feelings  the  signs  of  this  dread  punishment. 

The  air  was  filled  with  shrieks  of  pain  and  cries  of  agony 
from  the  unhappy  ones  at  the  stake,  thus  dying  amid  excruciat- 
ing torments.  The  spectators  were  horror-stricken.  Cold- 
blooded though  they  were,  and  accustomed  to  scenes  of  cruelty 
in  the  amphitheatre,  they  nevertheless  saw  here  something 
which  exceeded  the  worst  horrors  of  Roman  sports.  It  filled 
them  with  dismay.     It  sickened  them.     The  shrieks  of  anguish 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


275 


thrilled  through  the  hearts  of  all.     The  spectators  were  not 
amused,  they  were  shocked  and  sickened. 

But  Nero,  in  his  self-complacency,  measuring  all  men  b) 
himself,  and  judging  of  the  feelings  of  all  others  by  his  own, 
was  quite  unconscious  of  the  real  effect  of  his  illumination.  As 
the  light  flashed  up  from  the  burning  piles,  he  mounted  his 
chariot  once  more,  and  resumed  his  career  through  the  paths  of 
the  garden,  dashing  furiously  along  j  now  stopping  his  horses 
in  an  instant,  now  turning  them  sharply  to  the  right,  now  to  the 
left.  But  no  applause  came  now  to  his  eais.  The  emperor, 
however,  thought  nothing  of  this  ;  he  supposed  either  that  the 
people  were  too  delighted  with  the  spectacle  to  attend  to  his 
charioteering,  or  else  that  their  admiration  deprived  them  of 
the  power  of  utterance. 

But  the  people  were  filled  with  dismay.  All  those  who  had 
any  hum?.nity  left,  felt  sympathy  with  the  sufferers,  and  regardc! 
Nero  as  the  vilest  of  tyrants.  They  stood  with  throbLpij.j 
hearts  looking  at  the  agony  before  them,  till  the  cries  of  pain 
grew  feebler,  and  successively  the  sufferers  passed  away  from 
suffering. 

At  last  all  grew  dark  j  the  flames  ceased ;  only  a  lurid  fiie 
glowed  where  the  martyrs  had  perished  \  and  th  in  the  dark- 
ness, with  low  murmurs,  the  vast  crowd  dt  ted  to  their 
several  homes. 

Nero's  plan  was  not  altogether  successful. 

The  Christians  were  no  longer  mobbed  in  ne  streets.  The 
people  felt  sorrow  for  their  fate. 

But  the  persecution  continued.  Every  da^  new  victims  were 
seized.  Some  were  nailed  on  the  cross  ;  others  were  sewed  up 
in  the  skins  of  wild  beasts,  and  torn  to  pieces  1  y  fierce  hounds ; 
others  were  exposed  to  the  beasts  of  the  amphitheatre;  and 
others  were  tortured  in  many  ways. 

But  many  of  the  more  intelligent  felt  deej  ly  for  the  Chris- 
tians in  their  suffering.     They  thought  that  tiiey  indulged  in 


m. 


II 


i 


li;.! 


m 

■:illt' 


"li: 


li'! 

t  •; 


i 


276 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


|lf! 


I':     1^ 


pernicious  practices  \  but  they  saw  that  they  fell  a  sacrifice  not 
to  the  public  good,  but  to  the  cruelty  of  one  man  only.  Still 
nothing  could  be  done.  The  emperor  was  absolute  master, 
and  even  if  the  people  shuddered  at  his  cruelty,  they  dared  not 
interpose. 

The  little  community  of  Christians  was  sadly  broken  up. 
Many  fled  to  distant  parts.  Others  concealed  themselves  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  city.  Others,  who  could  not  leave, 
calmly  waited  death. 

The  general  affliction  rested  on  none  more  heavily  than  on 
those  in  Labeo's  villa  who  loved  Christ.  Helena  was  a  Chris- 
tian, and  did  not  know  at  what  time  even  she  might  be  called 
on  to  choose  between  abjuring  Christ  and  death.  Others  there 
felt  that  they  were  in  greater  danger.  Helena  might  escape. 
She  was  the  wife  of  Labeo,  and  his  influence  could  shield  her 
from  harm.  But  for  Eubulus,  if  he  were  captured,  there  could 
be  no  escape.  He  was  known  as  one  of  the  chief  Christians 
of  the  place.  He  himself  feared  nothing  at  all.  He  heard  the 
news  of  the  persecution  without  trepidation.  He  had  fears  for 
others,  but  no  fear  for  himself     He  was  ready  for  any  fate. 

But  c  titers  had  fears  for  him  when  he  had  no  fear  for  him- 
self Julius,  although  himself  in  great  danger,  determined  to 
save  the  venerable  man.     Cineas  was  eager  to  assist. 

There  was  no  place  of  escape.  Flight  from  the  vengeance 
of  the  government  was  not  possible.  The  arms  of  that  govern- 
ment extended  over  the  civilized  world ;  there  were  no  foreign 
states  to  which  a  man  might  flee.  Parthia,  the  savages  of 
Africa,  and  the  wild  tribes  of  Germany, — these  were  the  only 
alternative  to  the  Roman  world,  and  flight  to  these  barbaric 
nations  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

In  that  time  of  despair  there  appeared  to  Julius  and  to  the 
rest  of  the  Christians  one  place,  at  once  easy  of  access  and  im- 
penetrable to  pursuit,  already  hallowed  by  Christian  associa- 
tions, where  the  Christian  might  appropriately  seek  refuge,  and 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


277 


:o  the 
d  im- 
socia- 
and 


find  himself  in  the  midst  of  the  remains  of  those  who  had  gone 
on  before.     This  place  was  the  catacombs. 

Excavations  had  been  made  there  already  to  a  great  extent. 
Few  knew  the  number  of  the  passages,  or  the  direction  in 
which  they  led.  All  the  passages  were  cut  through  a  sort  of 
stone  which  remained  firm,  and  grew  stronger  with  age,  although 
soft  when  first  cut.  The  numerous  passages  formed  a  labyrinth, 
in  which  pursuit  became  impossible.  Whether  it  was  an  antici- 
pation of  such  a  time  as  this,  leading  the  Christians  to  regard 
this  as  a  place  of  retreat  in  danger,  or,  as  is  more  probable,  the 
mere  instinct  of  safety  drawing  them  here,  cannot  be  known, 
nor  does  it  matter;  certain  it  is,  that  at  the  first  cruel  outbreak 
of  the  persecution  great  numbers  fled  here  for  safety,  and  took 
up  their  abode  in  these  gloomy  vaults. 

It  was  to  this  place  that  Julius  determined  to  take  Eubulus. 
At  first  the  old  man  positively  refused,  being  eager,  as  he  said, 
to  die  for  his  Saviour;  but  Julius  worked  upon  him  through 
his  love  for  his  daughter,  and  thus  induced  him  to  go  there. 
Lydia  might  perhaps  have  remained  in  safety  in  Labeo's  house, 
under  the  protection  of  Helena;  but  she  refused  to  think  of 
separation  from  her  father.  Whatever  his  fate  might  be,  she 
determined  to  share  it,  and  chose  rather  to  live  in  these  sub- 
terranean vaults,  amid  the  mouldering  remains  of  the  dead, 
than  purchase  comfort  by  allowing  the  aged  man  to  go  there 
alone. 

Here,  then,  Eubulus  and  Lydia  sought  refuge,  and  Julius 
accompanied  them.  He  was  in  the  greatest  danger.  His 
name  had  been  struck  off  the  military  list,  and  he  had  been 
publicly  proclaimed  as  a  traitor  and  an  outlaw.  But  he 
shovv'ed  neither  regret  nor  irresolution.  His  faith  and  his 
conscience  sustained  him,  and  beside  this,  even  in  these  dim 
caverns  the  light  of  existence  could  not  altogether  fade,  for  to 
him  the  darkness  was  brightened  by  the  presence  of  Lydia. 

Very  many  had  found  refuge  here.     Far  beneath  the  streets 


278 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


iff*! 


: 


I       . 


■''# 


iUi 


of  that  city  there  lived  another  life,  whose  existence  was  but 
little  suspected  by  the  population  above.  At  first  men  only 
came,  but  after  a  time,  when  it  was  found  that  women  were  as 
readily  seized  and  put  to  death  as  men,  then  they  fled  here 
also.  Whenever  it  was  possible,  they  left  all  the  younger 
children  behind  in  the  charge  of  others ;  but  often  this  was 
not  possible,  and  there  were  many  little  children  in  these  dis- 
mal vaults,  shut  out  from  that  light  of  day  which  to  their  tender 
years  is  so  great  a  necessity.  Mothers  were  here,  too,  with 
little  infants,  which  they  had  still  to  carry  about  in  their  arms. 

Sadness  reigned  on  all  faces,  but  there  was  universal  patience. 
None  complained.  All  along  they  had  been  expecting  some 
such  fate  as  this.  Besides,  their  lot  at  first  seemed  far  better 
than  that  of  those  who  had  perished  on  the  cross  or  by  fire. 
At  first  it  seemed  so ;  but  as  time  passed,  and  the  gloom 
deepened  around  them,  this  living  burial  seemed  worse  than 
death.  Then  many  left  their  concealmenf,  partly  from  despair, 
partly  from  a  noble  spirit  of  seH-:,acrifice ;  for  sustenance  was 
difficult  to  procure,  and  those  who  left  thought  that  life  would 
be  easier  to  those  who  remained. 

The  little  children  felt  the  influence  of  this  sombre  and 
gloomy  life  most  quickly  and  most  fatally.  Many  sickened  at 
once,  and  died  in  their  parents'  arms.  Others  lived,  wasted  to 
skeletons,  with  a  life  that  hovered  on  the  verge  of  death.  Often 
the  parents  of  these  hapless  innocents  ventured  forth,  daring 
all  dangers  for  the  sake  of  their  children.  Some  went  back  to 
the  city,  to  their  old  abodes;  others  tried  to  go  away  to  distant 
places,  where  they  hoped  to  be  more  secure;  but  amo.g  these 
fugitives  many  were  discovered,  tjied,  and  put  to  death,  and 
thus  there  seemed  to  be  a  constant  supply  of  victims. 

Thus  there  were  deep  sadness  and  melancholy  through  all 
this  gloomy  place.  Sometimes  the  words  of  the  gospel,  com- 
municated to  them  by  their  leaders,  would  diffuse  a  momentary 
relief,  and  wculd  even  fill  them  with  something  like  exultation. 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


?79 


But  these  feelings  were  only  transitory;  no  joy  or  content  could 
endure  in  so  frightful  a  place ;  the  gloom  affected  the  physical 
constitution,  and  thus  acted  upon  the  mind  also. 

The  common  attitude  of  these  Christian  fugitives  was  one  of 
patient  resignation.  They  lost  all  hope  in  this  life,  and  looked 
eagerly  to  the  next  one.  They  reflected  that  Christ  had  fore- 
told that  sorrow  would  be  the  lot  of  his  followers ;  and  in  that 
sorrow  they  could  only  bow  their  heads,  and  meekly  acquiesce 
in  his  will. 

Yet  in  that  sad,  mourning  crowd,  there  was  one  who  seemed 
to  know  nothing  either  of  sadness  or  mournfulness.  This  was 
the  venerable  Eubulus. 

A  change  came  over  him  in  this  place.  Before  this  he  had 
been  a  meditative  and  reserved  man,  perpetually  fearful  of 
sin,  and  despondent  about  his  faith.  But  this  new  life  brought 
its  changes,  and  Eubulus  seemed  to  feel  that  with  him  it  was 
not  enough  to  shut  himself  up  with  his  own  thoughts. 

But  Eubulus  had  known  in  the  past  a  memorable  experience, 
which  it  is  not  necessary  to  rehearse  here,  yet  it  was  one  which 
could  afford  hope  to  others,  and  the  recollection  of  which  could 
give  comfort  to  his  own  soul.  Buried  here  amid  this  gloom, 
his  usual  introspective  habits  departed,  and  his  despondency 
also.  He  seemed  anxious  to  devote  himself  to  the  task  of 
encouraging  those  around  him,  and  in  his  firm  faith  others 
found  peace.  What  was  it  that  so  changed  him  1  Was  it  the 
effort  of  the  immortal  spirit,  with  a  premonition  of  its  departure, 
to  pass  its  last  time  on  earth  in  most  effectually  serving  its 
Lord? 

Many  of  the  Christians  went  up  into  the  city  for  food,  choos- 
ing the  night  rather  than  the  day.  Of  these  a  large  number 
never  returned.  But  their  fate  did  not  deter  others.  There 
were  many  in  the  city  who  sympathized  with  them,  and  assisted 
them,  sometimes  at  the  hazard  of  their  lives. 

"But  the  most  active  friend  whom  they  had  was  Cineas.     His 


I 


i 


'Pfi 


!i    '! 


'$ 


u 


<■  f'i   ^i 


'X 


I  ;l 


2  bo 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


'it    !  i ', 


vast  wealth  enabled  him  to  employ  a  large  number  of  men  to 
convey  provisions  to  the  neighbourhood.  As  he  was  also 
known  to  have  some  kind  of  a  public  commission  for  the 
comfort  of  the  people,  he  was  never  suspected.  He  was  thus 
Able  to  do  much  for  the  fugitives,  with  whom  he  felt  so  deep  a 
sympathy.  Very  often  he  went  down  himself,  and  tried  to 
cheer  them ;  but  he  sor  n  saw  that  no  human  words  could  bring 
comfort  to  hearts  like  these.  Still,  his  face  and  his  form 
became  well  known  to  all  here,  and  they  knew,  too,  that  he 
was  not  one  of  themselves;  they  gradually  learned  all  about 
him,  and  many  and  many  a  prayer  went  up  for  this  generous 
friend.  If  the  consciousness  of  doing  good  can  bring  happi- 
ness, then  Cineas  at  this  time  must  have  known  the  greatest 
happiness  of  his  life.  His  arrival  was  the  signal  for  eager 
welcome  from  sincere  and  grateful  hearts.  Men  looked  on 
him  with  reverential  affection,  and  as  he  moved  along,  all 
around  him  invoked  the  richest  blessings  of  Heaven  on  his  head. 

Sometimes,  under  the  protection  of  Julius,  Lydia  visited  the 
upper  air,  and  was  able  to  inhale  the  pure  atmosphere,  and 
gain  strength  to  support  her  in  her  subterranean  life.  No  one 
tried  any  longer  to  induce  her  to  leave  this  place,  for  she  had 
no  thought  of  leaving  her  father. 

Among  those  who  went  up  most  frequently  was  Julius.  He 
went  up  indifferently  by  night  or  by  day.  Daring  to  the  verge 
of  rashness,  fertile  in  resource,  and  quick  in  expedients,  he  had 
encountered  many  perils,  and  had  often  been  on  the  very  verge 
of  capture,  but  he  had  managed  thus  far  to  escape.  His 
friends  trembled  for  his  safety,  but  could  not  prevent  his 
adventurous  spirit  from  taking  the  chief  part  in  the  perils  of 
the  upper  world. 

But  Eubulus  had  not  a  long  captivity.  The  close  atmo- 
sphere, the  chill,  damp  air,  and  the  darkness,  all  served  to 
weaken  his  strength.  Day  after  day  he  grew  weaker.  They 
besought  him  to  return  to  Labeo's  villa,  but  he  refused. 


J  r 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


281 


He 


"No,"  said  he.  "Once  I  would  have  gladly  stayed  there 
and  noet  my  fate,  but  now  I  will  give  the  remainder  of  my  life 
to  these  sorrowing  ones  around  me.  I  feel  that  they  receive 
comfort  from  my  words." 

So  the  old  man  continued  his  fond  employ,  and  as  long  as 
he  could  speak,  those  gloomy  caverns  seemed  not  altogether 
dark. 

But  at  last  his  voice  ceased  for  ever. 

He  passed  away  in  the  night.  It  was  Lydia  who  first  dis- 
covered the  dread  truth.  She  found  her  father,  one  morning, 
lying  still  and  cold  on  his  couch.  Her  cries  brought  all  around 
to  the  spot.  There  they  saw  the  body  of  the  old  man,  from 
which  the  freed  spirit  had  taken  its  everlasting  flight. 

There  was  gloom  enough  after  that.  They  missed  his  vene- 
rable form,  his  majestic  countenance;  but,  most  of  all,  they 
missed  his  words,  that  never  ceased  to  carry  with  them  hope, 
and  peace,  and  divine  consolation.  What  could  supply  the 
place  % 

As  for  Lydia,  when  the  old  man  was  buried,  Cineas  insisted 
that  she  should  go  and  live  with  Helena.  In  her  grief  and 
loneliness  she  had  no  will  of  her  own,  and  mechanically  yielded 
to  the  suggestion.     Helena  received  her  as  a  sister. 

Dark  and  gloomy  enough  was  the  place  to  Julius  then.  But 
he  continued  to  labour  as  before  for  the  common  good,  and 
the  only  difference  that  these  things  made  in  his  outward  actions 
was,  that  he  became  even  mere  rash,  more  daring,  and  more 
careless  of  his  own  life  than  ever.  Yet  it  seemed  as  though 
Heaven  watched  over  him.  He  encountered  perils  every  day, 
yet  managed  to  elude  all  danger. 

Cineas  laboured  all  the  more  zealously  for  these  afflicted 
ones,  as  he  saw  their  imprisonment  prolonged  and  their  sorrow 
deepen.  Much  he  marvelled  at  that  resolution  which  was 
maintained  under  such  circumstances,  and  at  that  faith  which 
lay  beneath  all  that  resolution.     He  thought  he  himself  would 


. 


■»  "r 


,''li'.' 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


nf  1^  mil  2.0 


12.2 


m 

\A.  ■  1.6 


Hiotographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4503 


fV 


V 


is 


WM 


;\ 


\ 


ci^ 


^ 


0 


I 


282 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


ntake  but  a  poor  Christian,  for  he  did  not  feel  as  though  he 
could  endure  all  this  for  any  belief  whatever.  He  thought 
that  he  could  die  for  conscience'  sake,  but  this  life  seemed  like 
a  lingering  death,  more  terrible  than  any  which  was  encoun- 
tered on  the  cross  or  at  the  stake. 

In  their  sorrow  they  sought  expression  for  all  their  feelings 
in  those  psalms  which  they  loved  to  sing — the  psalms  of  the 
Jews,  which  the  Christians  had  also  adopted,  and  to  which 
they  had  given  a  new  meaning : — 


'  O  Lord  God  of  my  salvation, 
I  have  cried  day  and  night  before  thee : 
Let  my  prayer  come  before  thee : 
Incline  thine  ear  unto  my  cry ; 
For  my  soul  is  full  of  troubles  '  ' 

And  my  life  drawet)i  nigh  unto  the  gixtve. 


!•  -' 


I  am  counted  .with  them  that  go  down  into  the  pit ; 
'  '  I  am  as  a  man  that  hath  no  strength ; 

Free  among  the  dead,  like  the  slain  who  lie  in  the  grave,        i, 

Whom  thou  remembercsr.  no  more. 

And  they  are  cut  off  from  thy  hand.    .  ., 

Thou  hast  laid  me  in  the  lowest  pit, 

\xi  darkness,  in  the  deeps ;  ' 

Thy  wrath  lies  hard  upon  me,  .  :      \ 

And  thou  hast  afflicted  me  with  all  thy  waves." 

Here  despair  seemed  to  find  utterance.  These  men  took 
all  these  words  to  themselves,  and  saw  in  them  something 
prophetic.  While  they  strove  to  attain  to  resignation  and 
patience,  they  yet  felt  themselves  forced  to  speak  forth  their 
sorrow  in  words;  and  when  those  words  might  be  found  in 
the  inspired  volume,  there  they  adopted  them,  and  used  them. 
Among  these  there  was  another  psalm,  which  often  was  heard 
here  at  this  time : — 

"  Out  of  the  depths  have  I  cried  unto  thee,  O  Lord  1 
Lord,  hear  my  voice ; 

Let  thine  ears  be  attentive  to  the  voice  of  my  supplications. 
If  thou.  Lord,  shouldst  mark  iniquities, 

0  Lord  !  who  shall  sund? 

But  there  is  forgiveness  with  thee, 
lliat  thou  mayest  be  feared. 

1  wait  for  the  Lord,  my  soul  doth  wait, 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 


383 


1  he 
ught 
like 
oun- 

lings 

the 

hich 


And  in  his  word  do  I  hope ; 

My  soul  waiteth  for  the  Lord  more  than  they  that  watch  for  the  morning, 

I  say  more  than  they  that  watch  for  the  morning. 

Let  Israel  hope  in  the  Lord ;  '  .  ; 

For  with  the  Lord  there  is  mercy, 

And  with  him  is  plenteous  redemption, 

And  he  shall  redeem  Israel  from  all  his  iniquities." 

With  these  psalms  of  the  Jewish  Church  there  mingled  the 
Christian  hymns.  Rude  in  structure,  and  formed  from  the 
rhyming  popular  models,  the  taste  formed  by  the  culture  of 
that  age  might  be  offended,  but  if  the  harmony  of  sound  was 
wanting,  the  soul  could  see  deep  meaning  in  the  words,  and 
receive  comfort : — 


took 
hing 
and 
:heir 
i  in 
lem. 
eard 


"  Though  through  the  vale  I  go 
Oppressed  and  terrified, 

In  darkness  and  alone. 
With  fear  on  every  side. 

Vet  soars  my  spirit  up 
From  pangs  of  death  to  sing : 

' O  Grave  !  where  is  thy  victory? 

0  Death !  where  is  thy  sting  ? ' 

"  In  deep  grief  and  in  dark. 
With  fear  on  every  side, 
I  know  in  whom  I  trust, 

1  know  the  Crucified, 
He  lifts  my  spirit  up 

From  pangs  of  death  to  sing : 
'O  Grave!  where  is  thy  victory? 
O  Death !  where  is  thy  sting  f"* 


\ 


r 


XXV. 


Cfe«  Conspiracg. 


I  if 


|HUS  for  many  and  many  a  weary  month  life  was 
only  safe  to  the  Christian  by  the  sacrifice  of  that 
light  of  day,  without  which  life  is  worth  but  little. 
Cineas  went  near  the  Court  but  seldom.  His 
duties  in  behalf  of  the  public  and  the  poor,  who  yet  remained, 
to  a  great  extent,  homeless  and  destitute,  formed  a  sort  of  an 
excuse.  The  idea  of  again  associating  with  Nero  filled  him  with 
horror.  To  him  he  attributed  all  the  hideous  scenes  which  he 
had  lately  witnessed, — the  fire ;  the  grief  and  the  destruction  of 
the  people ;  the  cruel  punishment  of  the  Christians ;  their  life 
and  sufferings  below  the  ground.  He  seemed  to  Cineas  now 
like  the  enemy  of  the  human  race, — Dis  himself,  incarnate, 
sent  to  inflict  agony  and  woe  on  the  people.  On  that  monarch 
and  his  Court  he  looked  with  loathing,  and  he  felt  that  he 
would  risk  every  danger  rather  than  resume  his  former  life 
there. 

To  one  so  jealous  as  Nero,  this  action  of  Cineas  would  have 
caused  jealousy  and  suspicion,  under  ordinary  circ  amstances, 
and  these  would  have  certainly  resulted  in  characteristic  ven- 
geance. But  the  fact  was,  Nero  had  forgotten  all  about  him. 
The  scenes  of  the  last  few  months  had  thrown  him  out  of  his 
literary  tastes  completely.  He  was  just  now  intent  above  all 
things  on  the  destruction  of  the  Christians.  The  fact  that  they 
were  innocent  only  gave  zest  to  the  occupation.     As  to  their 


THE  CONSPIRACY. 


\ 


particular  belief,  he  was  supremely  indifferent  Their  flight  to 
mysterious  hiding-places,  where  they  bafiled  him  so  completely, 
filled  him  with  greater  animosity,  and  made  him  only  the  more 
eager  to  complete  their  destruction.  ' 

But  now  an  event  occurred  which  turned  the  thoughts  of 
Nero  in  a  new  direction,  and  lessened  his  vindictiveness  against 
the  Christians,  by  showing  him  a  new  class  of  enemies,  who 
were  more  terrible  by  far. 

The  atrocities  of  Nero  had  filled  the  public  mind  with  horror, 
and  some  courageous  men  thought  that  they  might  find  a  way 
to  rid  the  world  of  such  a  monster.  A  conspiracy  was  formed, 
which  embraced  many  men  of  the  highest  rank  and  influence 
in  the  state.  They  saw  that  the  empire  was  going  to  ruin,  and 
sought,  while  getting  rid  of  Nero,  to  find  some  Ohe  who  was 
capable  of  remedying  the  evil.  This  man  some  thought  they 
saw  in  Seneca ;  but  others,  and  the  majority,  preferred  Caius 
Piso,  who  was  descended  from  the  house  of  Calpumius,  and 
related  to  the  best  families  of  Rome.  He  had  an  amiable 
character;  and  his  affable  and  courteous  manners  made  him 
popular  among  his  friends.  He  was  not  particularly  rigid  in  his 
morals;  but  this,  to  the  conspirators,  was  no  disadvantage. 
The  conspiracy  was  carried  on  with  such  spirit  that  it  was 
scarcely  begun  when  it  was  almost  ripe  for  execution.  Senators, 
knights,  soldiers,  and  even  women,  joined  it  with  enthusiasm, 
all  being  animated  by  their  common  hatred  of  Nero. 

The  day  ha  i  been  fixed,  and  all  things  arranged,  even  down 
to  the  minutest  details ;  the  one  who  should  give  the  first 
stroke  was  appointed ;  but  suddenly,  through  the  carelessness 
of  one  of  the  chief  conspirators,  all  was  lost.  The  freedman  of 
one  of  the  leaders  found  it  out,  and  made  it  known.  Instantly 
a  number  were  arrested  and  put  to  the  torture.  Their  confes- 
sion served  to  implicate  others.  More  were  seized,  and  served 
in  the  same  way.  All  was  disclosed.  The  confession  of  one 
involved  the  confession  of  all.     The  rack  subdued  their  resolu- 


! 


m 


\ 


286 


THE  CONSPIRACY. 


tion.  The  poet  Lucan  lost  his  fortitude  under  torture,  and 
charged  his  own  mother  with  the  guilt  of  being  accessory  to 
the  plot. 

Then  beg^n  the  work  of  vengeance.  All  who  in  any  way, 
real  or  imaginary,  were  supposed  to  be  connected  with  the 
conspiracy  were  seized  and  put  to  death.  Some  of  these  were 
actually  guilty.  Against  others  nothing  could  be  proved.  The 
most  eminent  jf  the  sufferers  was  the  illustrious  Seneca.  This 
man,  with  all  his  faults,  and  they  were  not  few,  was  the  most 
conspicuous  in  the  age,  and  his  death,  inflicted  without  just 
cause,  has  given  additional  lustre  to  his  name. 

When  the  message  of  death  was  brought  to  Seneca,  he  heard 
it  with  calm  composure.  He  was  not  allowed  to  make  his  will ; 
so  he  told  his  friends  that,  although  he  was  deprived  of  the 
power  of  requiting  their  services  with  the  last  marks  of  his 
esteem,  yet  he  could  leave  them  the  example  of  his  life,  which 
they  could  cherish  in  their  memories.  Seeing  them  burst  into 
tears,  he  said,  "  Where  are  the  precepts  of  philosophy  which 
for  years  have  taught  us  to  meet  the  calamities  of  life  with 
firmness?  Was  the  cruelty  of  Nero  unknown  to  any  of  usi 
He  murdered  his  mother ;  he  destroyed  his  brother ;  and  after 
those  horrible  acts,  what  remains  but  to  complete  his  crimes 
by  the  murder  of  his  tutor?" 

Then  he  turned  his  attention  to  his  wife,  and  embracing  her, 
for  a  moment  yielded  to  his  emotions.  Then,  recovering  him- 
self, he  entreated  her  to  mitigate  her  grief.  But  his  wife  was 
inconsolable,  and  determined  to  die  with  her  husband.  Seneca 
thought  that  her  resolution  was  a  generous  one,  and  ought  not 
to  be  resisted.  "  Since  you  will  have  it  so,"  said  he,  "  we  will 
die  together.  We  will  leave  an  example  of  equal  constancy, 
but  you  will  have  the  chief  glory." 

Then  their  veins  were  opened.  Seneca  was  old,  and  his 
blood  did  not  flow  freely.  He  ordered  additional  veins  to  be 
opened.     Then  his  sufferings  began  to  overpower  him,  and 


iv 


THE  CONSPIRACY. 


\ 


%%t 


fearing  that  the  sight  of  his  anguish  might  distress  his  wife,  he 
persuaded  her  to  be  taken  to  another  room.  Then  he  calmly 
called  for  his  secretary  and  dictated  a  farewell  discourse,  which 
was  published  after  his  death.  ' 

His  wife,  however,  was  not  suffered  to  die.  Nero  feared 
that  this  additional  victim  would  injure  him  in  the  estimation 
of  the  people,  and  by  his  orders  her  veins  were  bound  up,  and 
she  was  saved.  She  was  already  in  a  state  of  insensibility,  and 
awaked  to  a  life  to  which  she  had  been  recalled  involuntarily. 

While  his  wife  was  thus  saved,  Seneca  lingered  in  agony. 
Finding  his  death  prolonged,  he  called  for  some  poison,  which 
was  given  to  him.  But  the  effect  was  scarcely  perceptible.  He 
longed  to  get  rid  of  life.  He  wished  also  to  show  what  con- 
tempt of  death  might  be  created  by  philosophy.  So,  when  he 
found  that  the  poison  had  an  insufficient  effect,  he  requested 
to  be  placed  in  a  warm  bath.  Being  placed  there,  he  sprinkled 
his  slaves  with  water,  and  said,  "  I  make  libation  to  Jupiter, 
the  deliverer."  Then  the  trapour  overpowered  him,  and  death 
soon  came.  So  died  Seneca,  a  man  with  many  faults,  but  who 
showed  himself,  at  least,  fearless  of  death,  and  maintained  his 
calmness  till  the  end. 

The  next  one  in  eminence  who  was  sacrificed  to  the  ven- 
geance of  Nero,  was  Lucan,  the  famous  poet.  Of  his  guilt  and 
complicity  in  the  conspiracy  there  was  no  doubt  His  veins 
were  opened,  and  the  blood  flowed  freely  from  him.  The 
extremities  of  his  limbs  lost  their  strength  and  vital  heat  first, 
and  the  warmth  retreated  to  his  heart;  but  he  retained  the 
vigour  of  his  mind  until  the  last  Then  there  occurred  to  his 
memory  the  lines  in  his  Pharsalia,  which  describe  a  soldier 
dying  in  the  same  condition.  These  he  repeated,  and  while 
uttering  them  he  breathed  his  last. 

Engaged  in  such  a  work  as  this,  it  is  not  wonderful  that 
Nero  forgot  for  a  time  the  milder  charms  of  art  and  literature. 
Vengeance  took  up  all  his  thoughts.     The  death  of  Seneca 


I 


\ 


If 


!  ,  !,■ 


i 


fk 


388 


r//E  CONSPIRACY. 


gave  him  peculiar  delight,  for  the  venerable  character  of  the 
man,  and  his  lofty  fame,  made  that  death  in  the  highest  degree 
striking.  Nero  also  was  delighted  at  the  circumstances  which 
accompanied  it.  He  vowed  that  it  was  a  scene  of  the  highest 
dramatic  effect,  and  ought  to  be  represented  on  the  stage.  He 
regarded  the  devotion  of  his  wife  as  something  admirable,  and 
felt  sorry  that  he  had  interfered.  He  felt  that  he  had  irretriev- 
ably spoiled  a  grand  tragic  scene  worthy  of  Sophocles.  He 
declared  that  on  another  occasion  of  the  kind  he  would  risk 
anything  rather  than  spoil  such  an  affecting  display  of  true 
tragic  pathos. 

As  to  Lucan,  he  felt  very  much  in  the  same  way.  The  death 
of  that  poet  gave  him  pleasure,  because  Lucan  had  entered  into 
rivalry  with  him,  and  had  been  successful,  on  which  account 
Nero  had  never  ceased  to  be  mortally  jealous  of  him.  With 
him  jealousy  meant  vengeance,  and  now  that  vengeance  was 
satiated.  Yet  so  singular  was  the  nature  of  this  man,  that  when 
Lucan's  death  was  described,  he  was  affected  to  tears.  He 
declared  that  he  never  believed  that  Lucan  had  such  fine  taste. 
To  die  with  such  an  appropriate  quotation  on  one's  lips  was 
admirable.  He  only  objected  that  Lucan  had  quoted  his  own 
poetry,  and  thought  of  some  of  his  own  compositions  which 
would  have  been  more  effective  under  the  circumstances. 

Cineas  and  Labeo  were  therefore  quite  forgotten,  and  indeed 
Nero  felt  a  sort  of  relief  at  the  absence  of  Cineas ;  for  if  he  had 
been  present,  he  would  have  felt  half  ashamed  of  his  loss  of 
interest  in  literature  and  philosophy.  The  conspiracy  filled  all 
his  thoughts.  Fortunate  it  was  for  Cineas  that  he  had  never 
associated  to  any  extent  with  the  chief  men  in  Rome.  It  saved 
him  now.  For  now  all  men  were  suspected,  yet  no  on  dreamed 
of  laying  anything  to  the  charge  of  Cineas;  for  it  was  well 
known  that  he  had  never  mixed  with  Roman  society,  and  tiiat, 
although  to  some  extent  a  courtier,  he  had  confined  all  his 
attentions  to  Nero.    The  fact  was,  that  Roman  society  was 


'3, 


THE  CONSPIRACY. 


m 


always  distasteful.  The  virtuous  were  too  harsh  and  severe, 
and  the  vicious  were  too  debased.  There  were  good  men  in 
Rome  whom  he  admired  sincerely,  but  he  cared  nothing  for 
their  society.  His  Greek  nature  desired  something  more  genial, 
more  playful,  and  less  austere  than  the  Roman  of  the  virtuous 
class.  His  wide  attainments  in  philosophy  were  also  altogether 
Greek ,  he  knew  little  of  Latin  literature,  and  cared  less ;  in 
the  object  of  his  life  he  found  nothing  there  which  could  excite 
any  interest,  and  he  cared  more  for  the  simple  writings  of  the 
Christians  than  for  all  the  works  of  Cicero.  All  this  had  kept 
Cineas  away  from  the  leading  men  of  Rome.  Burrhus,  Nero, 
and  Labeo,  were  all  with  whom  he  had  associated ;  and  even 
Tigellinus,  if  he  had  wished  to  make  a  charge  against  him  by 
means  of  his  false  witnesses,  could  have  invented  no  coherent  plot. 

Nero  had  so  completely  forgotten  Cineas  and  Labeo,  that  in 
the  course  of  promotion  to  higher  offices  the  latter  was  over- 
looked, and  a  friend  of  Tigellinus  was  put  in  the  very  place  to 
which  he  confidently  expected  to  be  advanced.  Remonstrance 
was  of  course  useless,  even  if  it  had  been  possible  for  him  to 
condescend  to  it.  He  was  compelled  to  bear  his  disappoint- 
ment as  best  he  could.  That  disappointment  was  indeed 
severe.  It  filled  his  mind  with  gloom.  He  had  thought  that 
his  future  was  secure,  and  in  the  ordinary  routine  had  looked 
forward  in  a  short  time  to  a  high  position  in  some  province 
from  which  he  might  rise  to  be  governor.  But  now  this  inter- 
ruption in  his  advance  broke  up  all  those  bright  prospects.  He 
saw  plainly,  that  if  in  the  very  fulness  of  his  prosperity  such  a 
blow  could  fall,  that  now,  in  his  adversity,  no  change  for  the 
better  could  reasonably  be  expected. 

In  his  disappointment  he  had  no  other  preeent  resource  but 
to  return  to  his  villa,  and  wait  for  something  better.  Perhaps 
he  might  yet  get  promotion  in  the  army ;  perhaps,  after  a  while, 
some  better  prospect  might  arise.  So  severe  had  been  the 
blow  to  his  ambitious  projects,  that  he  thought  of  nothing  but 


i 


290 


THE  CONSPIRACY. 


^ 


his  own  affairs.  The  recent  calamities  shocked  him,  but  in- 
spired his  mind  with  none  of  that  horror  which  Cineas  felt.  He 
contented  himself  with  saying  nothing.  He  did  not  feel  called 
on  to  interfere  in  one  way  or  another.  If  his  promotion  had 
gone  on,  he  would  have  been  willing  to  remain  in  connection 
with  the  Court,  even  if  Nero  had  entered  upon  worse  crimes 
than  ever.  It  would  have  sufficiently  satisfied  his  conscience  if 
he  had  kept  clear  of  actual  guilt.  \ 

As  time  went  on,  and  he  found  himself  still  without  occupa- 
tion, he  constantly  suspected  that  some  enemy  had  interfered 
with  his  prospects,  and  his  mind  could  not  help  turning  to 
Tigellinus  and  Hegio.  That  the  latter  had  set  fire  to  his  house 
he  firmly  believed,  and  did  not  know  how  far  he  might  have 
influence  with  his  new  master.  Under  these  circumstances,  he 
thought  that  the  bbst  thing  would  be  to  keep  on  his  guard 
against  any  new  misfortunes  from  the  same  source.  In  his 
conferences  with  Isaac,  he  found  that  Hegic  had  become  one 
of  the  most  active  attendants  on  Tigellinus,  and  was  rapidly 
increasing  in  wealth  and  in  importance.  He  felt  that  Hegio 
might  yet  cherish  thoughts  of  vengeance,  and  that  this  should 
be  guarded  against.  For  this  purpose  he  could  think  of  no 
one  better  than  Galdus. 

"  Galdus,"  said  he  one  day,  when  he  had  sent  for  the  Briton, 
"  you  are  not  my  servant  now,  but  my  friend.     Are  you  notl" 

"You  have  called  me  so,"  said  the  Briton,  with  dignity, 
"  and  I  only  wait  for  an  opportunity  to  prove  myself  worthy  of 
the  name." 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  your  heroic  act.  Do  you  know  who 
caused  that — who  set  the  house  on  fire,  and  almost  destroyed 
my  son  1" 

**  No,"  said  Galdus,  with  a  wild  fire  in  his  eyes ;  "  whol" 

"  He  is  my  worst  enemy.  He  was  once  my  servant,  but  I 
dismissed  him  for  dishonesty.  He  seeks  to  take  vengeance  on 
me  for  this." 


I 


1 


THE  CONSPIRACY. 


391 


"  He  shall  die  1 "  cried  Galdus,  with  the  look  of  a  savage. 

"  No,  no ;  you  are  in  a  civilized  land,  not  in  Britain.  It  is 
not  so  easy  to  kill  men  in  Rome.  I  wish  you  to  watch  out  for 
this  man.  He  is  an  Asiatic,  with  brown  skin,  black  curling 
hair,  black  eyes,  and  the  face  of  a  villain.  His  name  is  Hegio. 
Watch  out  for  him.  If  you  ever  see  him  on  these  grounds,  do 
what  you  like  with  him.  If  you  ever  see  him  in  this  neighbour- 
hood, let  me  know.  He  is  still  trying  to  injure  me,  and  I 
believe  that  he  has  recently  done  me  a  great  wrong.  He  may 
yet  do  worse.' 

"  If  he  does,  he  dies,"  said  Galdus,  slowly  and  solemnly. 


^ 


XXVI. 


1    i 


■;  ^  r 


\n 


III  ! 


Cfei  %xxtni. 

[;NE  day  Labeo  received  a  visit  from  one  whom  he  had 
not  seen  for  a  long  time. 
It  was  Julius. 

Pale,  emaciated,  and  haggard,  he  looked  but 
little  like  that  stout  young  soldier  who  formerly  had  been  here. 
Cineas  had  seen  him  constantly  ever  since  his  new  life,  but 
Labeo  had  not.  There  was  anxiety  in  his  face,  which  struck 
Cineas  at  once  and  excited  his  apprehensions. 

"  There  is  bad  newsl"  said  Cineas,  inquiringly,  after  the  first 
salutations  were  over. 

"  There  is,"  said  Julius,  gloomily,  "  or  else  I  would  not  have 
entered  the  house  of  a  public  officer." 

"  That  I  am  no  longer,"  said  Labeo. 

"True,"  said  Julius,  sadly,  regarding  him  for  a  moment. 
Then,  with  a  hur/ied  movement, — "  There's  no  time  to  lose — I 
bring  fearful  news  to  you." 

"Whati" 

"  Labeo,  your  wife  is  a  Christian." 

Labeo  and  Cineas  turned  as  pale  as  ashes,  and  looked  at 
each  other,  while  a  feeling  of  sickening  horror  thrilled  through 
them.  The  fact  that  Helena  was  a  Christian  was  of  course  well 
enough  known  to  both,  but  in  these  fearful  times  of  persecution 
and  proscription,  the  hurried  visit  of  this  outlaw,  with  these 
words  on  his  lips.,  had  a  fearful  meaning. 


THE  ARREST. 


293 


le 


had 


ed  but 

n  here. 

ife,  but 

struck 

he  first 

ot  have 


loment. 
ose — I 


'  Wellt"  said  Labeo,  in  a  voice  which  was  scarce  audible. 

"  They  are  going  to  arrest  her,"  said  Julius. 

"  Arrest  her ! "  "  ' 

"  Yes.    And  ^here  is  no  time  to  lose.    She  must  fly." 

"Fly!— where  1" 

"  To  the  catacombs." 

"  To  the  catacombs ! — to  a  living  tomb  I  And  why  1"  cried 
Labeo,  passionately.  "  Who  would  dare  to  arrest  her  1  She  is 
not  a  common  woman  of  the  mob.  She  is  not  a  thing  for 
informers  and  perjured  witnesses  to  practise  on.  Let  them  try 
it  if  they  dare." 

"  There  is  no  time  to  lose,"  cried  Julius,  interrupting  him, 
"  not  a  moment.  I  came  out  to  save  them,  and  to  save  also 
Lydia.    They  must  fly — with  me — at  once — or  they  are  lost ! " 

"Fly! — like  criminals  I  Fly! — my  wife! — never,"  cried 
Labeo,  vehemently.  "  Never.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  this 
yet.  I  have  not  fallen  so  low.  While  I  live  she  shall  live. 
She  shall  not  go  there — no — never." 

"  Think  of  Nero.,  and  you  will  see  that  no  cruelty  is  impos- 
sible for  him." 

"  Nero  has  no  cause  for  hating  me.  He  has  favoured  me 
greatly  until  recently." 

"Others  have  supplanted  you,"  said  Julius,  impatiently. 
"  You  can  do  nothing.  But  I  lose  time.  Haste.  If  you  wish 
the  safety  of  your  wife,  bid  her  prepare;  if  not,  then  at  least 
summon  Lydia." 

Cineas  said  not  a  word.  Labeo  was  the  judge  here.  He 
knew  not  what  to  say,  and  said  nothing.  The  suddenness  of 
the  blow  bewildered  him. 

Then  Julius  implored  Labeo  to  save  his  wife ;  to  send  her 
away,  or  convey  her  away;  to  do  anything  rather  than  allow 
her  to  remain.  And  Labeo  steadily  refused.  He  was  still 
unable  to  understand  how  any  one  would  dare  to  arrest  her. 
All  his  pride  was  roused.     Never  would  he  consent  to  that 


1    «, 


u 


imi  ' '. 


294 


T//E  ARREST. 


which  seemed  so  deep  a  disgrace.  For  it  seemed  to  him  like 
additional  insult  to  his  present  adverse  fortunes,  and  he  fought 
against  it,  and  determined  to  hold  out  against  fate.       ~    '         \ 

Julius,  therefore,  finding  all  his  representations  useless,  in 
his  deep  anxiety,  and  in  his  haste,  urged  that  Lydia  might  be 
summoned.  This  Labeo  readily  granted.  The  young  maiden 
was  informed  of  the  state  of  the  case,  and  Helena,  who  heard 
the  news  with  the  most  gloomy  forebodings,  not  unmingled 
with  terror,  hurried  her  away,  and  took  leave  of  her  as  though 
this  were  their  last  meeting  on  earth.  Scarcely  did  Julius 
allow  a  word,  but  in  his  hurry  at  once  set  out.  The  horse 
which  had  carried  him  out  carried  both  back  towards  their  des- 
tination. 

Then  the  two  friends  were  left  to  their  thoughts.  Soon 
Helena  appeared,  pale  and  frightened.  She  flung  herself  into 
her  husband's  arms.  He  folded  her  in  them,  and  held  her 
close  to  his  heart,  and  looked  with  a  fierce  glance  away,  as 
though  in  search  of  some  imaginaiy  enemy. 

"There's  no  danger,"  said  he,  "and  no  fear,  sweet  wife. 
Who  would  dare  to  arrest  you  1 " 

Helena  shuddered,  and  wept. 

"  I  am  such  a  coward,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot  face  danger." 

"  Danger !  No ;  you  are  too  tender  even  to  be  exposed  to 
the  fear  of  it.     And  never  shall  harm  come  to  you  while  I  live." 

"  Had  I  not  better  fly  ? "  she  asked,  timidly. 

"  F'y !  Alas,  where  1  What  place  is  secure  from  Caesar  1 
But  why  talk  of  flight  ?  There  is  no  cause.  This  is  a  needless 
alarm.  T^ere  may,  indeed,  have  been  danger  for  Lydia,  but 
there  is  none  for  you.  I  have  some  power  yet,  and  influence. 
I  am  not  a  fallen  man  altogether.  The  Sulpicii  are  not  so 
mean  that  they  have  become  poor  victims  of  a  tyrant.  No,  no. 
Calm  yourself,  dearest.  Look  up — my  own — the  danger  is 
only  a  fancy.  It  was  a  mistake  of  Julius — a  mistake — 
that's  all." 


THE  ARREST. 


295 


as 


With  such  words  Labeo  strove  to  calm  his  wife,  yet,  with  all 
his  indignant  disbelief,  his  heart  was  ill  at  ease.  His  mind 
misgave  him.  For  Christians  of  name  and  station  had  already 
suffered  the  most  cruel  of  deaths,  and  it  M'as  possible  that 
Helena  might  be  arrested  after  all. 

While  Labeo  tried  to  give  to  Helena  a  confidence  which  he 
himself  did  not  possess,  Cineas  sat,  pale  and  anxious,  looking 
at  the  floor.  Well  he  knew  the  danger.  He  had  anticipated 
some  such  thing  as  this,  and  he  seemed  to  see  the  actual 
presence  of  that  which  he  feared. 

Now,  while  these  three  were  thus  togelher  struggling  with 
fear  and  anxiety,  they  became  aware  of  a  sudden  tumult  out- 
side— the  tramp  of  horses,  the  rattle  of  arms.  Helena  heard  it 
first.     She  shrieked,  and  clung  more  closely  to  her  husband. 

"  O  my  God  ! "  she  cried,  "  support  me.  I  cannot  support 
myself." 

Labeo  held  her  and  looked  wildly  at  the  door.  The  sounds 
carne  nearer.  There  were  voices  at  the  portico,  footsteps  on 
the  pavement,  and,  without  any  summons  or  message,  the  foot- 
steps drew  nearer. 

An  officer  entered  the  room,  followed  by  several  soldiers. 
One  man  accompanied  them  whose  appearance  filled  Labeo 
with  bitterest  rage.     It  was  Hegio. 

He  had  come  to  triumph  in  his  revenge.  Labeo  knew  it. 
And  that  revenge  was  wreaked  through  his  wife.  His  brain 
reeled  in  his  furious  passion. 

The  officer  respectfully  saluted  Labeo,  and  apologized  for 
his  presence.  He  hoped  that  he  might  be  forgiven  for  per- 
forming a  painful  duty,  and  after  some  long  preamble  of  this 
sort,  he  at  length  told  the  nature  of  his  errand.  He  had  been 
sent  to  arrest  Helena,  the  wife  of  Labeo,  as  a  Christian,  and  a 
traitor  to  the  state.  Saying  this,  he  displayed  the  imperial 
mandate. 

Labeo  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  at  the  officer. 


it 


.^n 


ft 


\. 


tl 


^     j 


296 


THE    iRREST. 


"  This  is  some  cruel  jest  of  the  emperor,"  said  he  at  last  in  a 
hoarse  voice. 

"  I  hope  it  is  a  jest,"  said  the  officer;  "but  I  have  only  one 
course." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  will  arrest  her  1 "  said  Labeo, 
holding  his  wife  more  closely  as  she  clung  to  him  in  her 
fright. 

"  What  else  can  I  do  1"  said  the  officer,  in  an  embarrassed 
manner.  "  You  know  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  obey  orders. 
I  must  make  the  arrest." 

"  Never ! "  cried  Labeo,  furiously. 

"What?" 

"  Never  1" 

"  You  need  not  talk  in  that  way,"  said  the  officer,  trying  to 
find  some  escape  from  the  painfulness  of  the  scene  by  assuming 
an  air  of  anger.  "You  must  yield.  The  emperor  com- 
mands you." 

"  I  will  not,  and  you  may  tell  him  so." 

"  Then  I  must  take  her,"  said  the  officer. 

"  Do  so  at  your  peril." 

"  It  will  be  at  yt'ur  peril,"  retorted  the  other,  whose  wrath 
began  to  be  excited.  "  Why  do  you  interfere  with  me  1  It  is 
my  duty.  She  can  swear  that  she  is  not  a  Christian,  and  all 
will  be  well.     That  is  all  that  she  has  to  do." 

At  this  Helena  trembled  all  the  more  violently.  The  eyes 
of  Hegio  sparkled.  He  came  up  to  the  officer  and  said  in  a 
low  voice, — 

"  You  have  said  nothing  about  the  boy." 

"  The  boy." 

Labeo  repeated  the  words  mechanically,  and  a  worse  horror 
stole  thro  igh  him. 

The  officer  looked  fiercely  at  Hegio. 

"  Who  asked  for  your  interference  1 "  he  cried.  "  Must  you 
remind  me  of  what  I  would  like  to  forget  1 "     Then  turning  to 


'  I 


THE  ARREST. 


297 


Labeo,  "  There  is  another,"  said  he,  slowly  and  painfully — "  a 
boy;  I  must  take  him  too."  ' 

Helena  heard  this.  With  a  shriek  she  tore  herself  away,  and 
rushed  out  of  the  room.  No  one  followed  her.  Labeo  placed 
himself  in  the  doorway,  and  glared  at  the  soldiers  like  a 
madman. 

"  Seize  him  ! "  said  the  officer.  "  Let  two  of  you  hold  him, 
and  the  rest  follow  me.     I  must  put  an  end  to  this." 

Two  soldiers  rushed  at  Labeo,  and  seizing  him,  each  one 
held  an  arm,  and  dragged  him  away,  while  the  rest,  headed  by 
Hegio,  went  in  after  Helena. 

Meanwhile  the  disturbance  and  the  shrieks  of  Helena  had 
roused  all,  and  the  servants  came  Hocking  rouiid,  pale  and 
trembling.  Among  them  came  Galdus,  who,  ever  faithful,  and 
occupied  by  one  engrossing  affection,  ran  first  to  the  chamber 
of  Marcus.  There  he  saw  Helena,  frantic,  and  clasping  her 
son  ir  her  arms. 

"  Save  him !  Oh,  save  him ! "  she  cried,  when  she  saw 
Galdus.  "  The  soldiers  are  here.  They  are  going  to  arrest 
him." 

At  this  moment'  the  tramp  of  men  resounded  over  the  marble 
pavement,  and  as  Galdus  turned  he  saw  them  advance,  headed 
by  Hegio.  He  stood  like  a  lion  at  bay.  His  gigantic  form 
filled  the  doorway.  But  he  was  unarmed,  and  the  spears  of 
the  soldiers  were  pointed  toward  him. 

"  Out  of  the  way  there,"  cried  the  officer. 

For  a  moment  Gaidus  hesitated.  The  soldiers  advanced. 
He  could  do  nothing,  and  with  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  rend  his 
frame,  he  fell  back  before  them.  There  he  stood  with  folded 
arms,  looking  on  the  scene.  He  marked  the  face  of  Hegio  ;  he 
recognized  him  as  the  1  lan  for  whom  he  had  been  bidden  to 
watch  ',  he  noticed  the  scowl  and  the  triumph  that  were  ou  that 
face. 

Short  time  was  needed  to  complete  this  work.     Helena  was 


:i;i 


\^. 


298 


THE  ARREST. 


■i 


\i\       ; 


taken,  and,  half-fainting  in  her  fear,  with  her  boy  clinging  to 
her,  she  moved  out  among  the  soldiers.  Marcus  looked 
frightened  and  bewildered,  understanding  nothing,  and  only 
knowing  that  something  terrible  had  occurred. 

So  they  returned  to  the  hall. 

The  officer  turned  to  Labeo. 

"  Be  of  good  courage,"  said  he  in  a  faltering  voice.  "  There 
need  be  no  fear.  She  will  swear  that  she  is  not  a  Christian. 
She  will  come  back." 

Labeo  said  not  a  word.  He  stood,  held  between  two 
soldiers,  staring  fixedly,  his  white  lips  moving,  but  uttering  no 
audible  word,  and  wild  agony  in  his  fixed  eyes.  No,  there 
were  no  words  for  such  a  scene  as  this. 

Then,  without  even  allowing  a  farewell  word,  the  soldiers 
moved  away  with  their  prisoners.  Those  who  held  Labeo 
waited  till  the  others  had  left  the  house,  and  then  releasing  him, 
they  departed. 

Labeo  stood  motionless.  The  noise  of  retreating  footsteps 
was  heard  as  the  party  mounted  and  rode  away  ;  he  stood  and 
heard,  but  made  no  effort  to  follow. 

Cineas  stood  there  too,  overwhelmed,  with  feelings  only  less 
keen  than  those  of  the  stricken  husband  and  father ;  bewildered 
too,  and  incapable  of  action. 

Labeo  stood  like  one  stunned,  staring  wildly,  with  the  veins 
in  his  forehead  swollen  to  bursting,  his  teeth  fixed,  his  hands 
clenched,  and  his  eyes  glowing  like  fire.  There,  too,  stood 
Cineas  with  his  face  as  white  as  ashes,  and  anguish  in  his 
features. 

They  were  dumb. 

But  the  strong  man  roused  himself  at  last,  and  reason,  which 
had  rested  for  a  moment,  resumed  its  sway.  With  a  deep 
groan  he  looked  around,  and  then  slowly  and  painfully  left 
the  room.  He  walked  out  to  the  portico,  looked  toward 
Rome,   and  listened  ;  then  he  walked   back  into  the  hall. 


THE  ARREST. 


299 


There  at  one  end  were  fixed  the  images  of  his  ancestors,  and 
beside  one  of  the  busts  was  a  dagger  which  this  one  had  once 
applied  to  his  own  heart,  to  save  the  Sulpicii  from  dishonour. 
This  Labeo  took.  It  was  well  preserved,  and  glittering,  and 
keen. 

Cineas  saw  this.  He  thought  of  only  one  thing,  and  that 
was  that  Labeo  meditated  suicide  like  his  ancestor. 

"  No,  no,"  he  cried,  coming  toward  his  friend,  in  an  implor- 
ing voice. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Labeo,  in  hollow  tones.  "Other  blood 
must  flow  first." 

"Blood!    What  blood  1" 

"  I  will  have  vengeance." 

"There  is  hope,"  cried  Cineas;  though  the  word  hope 
seemed  like  mockery  now. 

"  Hope ! "  said  Labeo,  savagely.  "  Do  you  think  she  will 
abjure  Christ  1    You  don't  know  her." 

"  I  will  see  Nero." 

"  Nero,"  interrupted  Labeo.     "As  well  see  a  tiger." 

"  I  think  I  can  persuade  him." 

"  I  know  something  better  than  persuasion.  Away.  Though 
you  are  the  friend  of  my  soul,  you  are  hateful.  All  is  hateful. 
I  lift  up  my  hands  to  the  gods  and  curse  them.  I  am  going  to 
die,  but  I  will  drag  down  to  the  shades  with  me  the  miscreant 
Nero ! " 

Brandishing  his  dagger,  he  fled  from  the  house.  Soon  Cineas 
heard  the  quick  gallop  of  a  horse. 

But  one  had  preceded  Labeo  from  that  stricken  household. 
One  who  knew  only  one  affection,  and  followed  it  now  that  it 
was  torn  from  him.  One  trained  in  British  wars,  where  men 
rivalled  horses  in  speed,  and  could  run  by  their  side  for  hours  \ 
where  charioteers  could  leap  on  the  poles  of  their  chariots,  or 
on  the  backs  of  their  horses  when  in  full  career,  and  carry  on 
the   fight       liike    the   avenger  of   blood,   he   pursued,  and 


ii 


41 


300 


THE  ARREST. 


i    \\ 


he  had  marked  out  one  for  vengeance,   and  that  one  was 
Hegio. 

In  his  vengeance  he  could  be  patient  and  tireless.  He 
thought  nothing  of  fatigue,  nothing  of  the  length  of  the  way ; 
he  followed,  and  kept  them  all  in  sight. 

So  at  last  they  entered  Rome,  and  as  they  rode  through  the 
streets,  Galdus  still  pursued. 

And  how  were  the  prisoners  in  that  party  ?  At  first  Helena 
had  been  scarce  conscious  of  surrounding  events,  but  the  cool 
night  air  roused  her  from  her  half  stupor,  and  she  began  to 
know  the  worst.  She  and  Marcus  were  on  the  same  horse, 
between  the  officer  and  Hegio.  As  she  began  to  realize  the 
worst  horrors  of  her  situation,  those  horrors  grew  more  endur- 
able, and  she  felt  greater  strength  and  calm.  She  pressed 
Marcus  more  closely  to  her  heart,  and  bending  over  him,  wept 
profusely.  Her  tears  relieved  her.  But  those  tears  which  fell 
upon  the  face  of  Marcus  awakened  sympathy  in  his  loving, 
childish  nature.  How  bold  and  brave  he  really  was  he  had 
already  shown.  He  had  already  confronted  a  death  by 
fire,  and  faced  it  down.  He  was  the  same  now,  and  his  high 
spirit  did  not  falter.  For  he  was  one  of  those  who  are  at  the 
same  time  keenly  susceptible  to  the  sufferings  of  others,  but 
courageous  and  indomitable  in  their  own  hearts.  Sensitive 
and  brave,  with  the  delicacy  of  a  girl,  but  the  nerves  and  the 
heart  of  a  lion, — such  was  Marcus,  in  whom  his  mother's  ten- 
derness and  the  strong  nature  of  his  father  were  blended. 
Such  natures  are  the  noblest ;  the  meek  in  peace,  the  bold  in 
war. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  "  don't  weep  ;  it  breaks  my  heart ;  don't 
weep." 

"  It  is  for  you,  dearest  boy." 

"  For  me  !  Do  you  weep  for  me  1  And  why  1  I  am  not 
afraid.  I  can  show  that  I  am  my  father's  son.  He  will  learn 
at  last  how  boldly  I  can  die." 


was 


THE  ARREST. 


301 


"  I  will  comfort  you,"  said  he,  after  a  pause.  "  I  wish  1 
were  older ;  I  am  only  ten  years  old,  but  I  am  not  a  coward. 
I  am  a  Roman  boy,  and  my  father's  boy,  and  I  am  not  sfifraid. 
I  can  die,  and  die  bravely."  , 

Many  such  words  did  M  ircus  utter.  He  in  his  lofty  courage 
sought  to  soothe  his  mother.  He  had  a  strange  sweet  air  of 
superiority,  as  though  he  recognized  in  himself  a  stronger  and 
a  superior  nature ;  and  his  mother  also  drew  encouragement 
from  that  unfaltering  courage,  that  splendid  "  pluck  "  of  the 
little  boy.  Religion  came  also,  with  its  comforts.  She  thought 
of  him  who  had  died  for  her ;  she  reproached  herself  for  her 
weakness.  New  strength  came  to  her  heart,  and  at  last  the 
prospect  of  the  stake  grew  less  terrible,  being  eclipsed  by  the 
splendour  of  that  heaven  that  lay  beyond. 

At  length  they  entered  the  city.  The  burnt  parts  were  not 
yet  rebuilt.  Tiie  party  went  on  through  a  wide  waste  of  ruined 
houses.  In  some  places  there  were  rough  hut;;  erected,  where 
people  were  living;  in  others,  the  walls  of  new  buildings  were 
rising.  It  was  quite  dark,  and  few  people  were  in  the  streets. 
After  some  time  they  came  to  the  Suburra,  which  had  all  been 
rebuilt,  and  showed  something  like  its  former  busy  and  varied 
scene.  Down  this  they  went  for  a  short  distance,  and  at  length 
turned  off  through  a  side  street. 

At  length  they  stopped  before  a  large  edifice  which  still  bore 
traces  of  fire  in  its  ruined  walls.     It  was  the  prison. 

"  This  is  not  the  place,"  said  Hegio  to  the  officer.  "  Their 
quarters  are  in  the  house  of  Padentatus  in  the  Campus  Martius. 
I  will  lead  on  to  show  the  way." 

The  officer  said  nothing.  Hegio  then  rode  forward,  and 
putting  himself  at  the  head  of  the  party,  went  at  the  usual  pace 
through  many  streets. 

At  last  they  came  to  a  wide  open  space.  It  was  the  Campus 
Martius.  They  rode  along  the  street  that  bordered  it,  and 
finally  came  to  a  house  that  stood  on  the  side  of  this  street 


% 


■h 

n 


\ 


k 


i 


\ 


302 


THE  ARREST. 


\ 


It  was  alone  by  itself.  The  houses  near  it  had  not  yet  been 
rebuilt.  This  was  an  old  edifice  of  massive  construction,  which 
had  suffered  but  little  from  the  fire,  and  had  been  repaired. 
Here  the  party  stopped.  They  all  dismounted.  No  inhabited 
house  was  near;  the  building  stood  by  itself.  The  officer,  who 
seemed  sullen  and  impatient,  hurried  his  men  to  the  completion 
of  their  task.  Two  soldiers  remained  behind  with  Hegio,  and 
the  officer  rode  on  with  the  rest. 

Then  the  door  was  unfastened,  lights  were  procured,  and 
Hegio  and  the  soldiers  took  their  prisoners  inside. 

After  a  time  Hegio  came  forth,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode 
away. 

He  knew  not  that  he  had  been  watched  all  this  time  by  one 
who  had  seen  everything. 

He  knew  not  that  the  avenger  was  on  his  track. 


J:!ili     '       'fl 


n 


XXVIl. 


^iQt  ^bcnger. 


|]0  Hegio  rode  off,  not  knowing  that  one  was  on  his 
track  who  would  demand  for  all  this  a  terrible 
reckoning. 

He  rode  off  slowly  and  leisurely.     His  horse  and 
he  were  both  fatigued  from  the  long  ride  and  the  excitement. 

He  wished  also  to  ride  slowly,  so  as  to  luxuriate  in  the 
thought  of  his  perfect  revenge.  Much  had  been  done,  more 
remained — the  punishment  due  to  Christians — the  Vatican 
gardens.     The  thought  was  sweet  to  a  soul  like  his. 

He  thought  of  other  things.  That  officer  had  scorned  him, 
and  treated  him  with  insult.  He  had  also  hesitated  in  his 
duty.  This  should  be  punished.  Labeo  should  also  fall — and 
Cineas — and  all  his  enemies. 

He  let  the  bridle  fall  carelessly  as  he  rode  along — lost  in 
thoughts  that  were  so  pleasing  to  him — and  in  this  frame  o^ 
mind  he  went  at  the  same  pace  through  the  city. 

At  last  he  approached  the  Esquiline  hill.  Here  was  the 
favourite  residence  of  Tigellinus,  and  to  this  Hegio  was  bound. 
The  broad  open  space  which  had  been  made  to  arrest  the 
flames  still  remained,  covered  with  the  deMs  of  the  ruined 
houses.     All  was  dark  there. 

Hegio  rode  along. 

Suddenly  a  dark  form  rushed  past  him  through  the  gloom, 
and  before  he  could  put  spurs  to  the  horse,  before  he  could 


^^1^ 
0 


I 


i'%i 


/a' 


II 


ri 


h 


1  'I 


304 


THE  A  VENGER. 


even  think,  a  mighty  grasp  had  clutched  him  by  the  throat  and 
dragged  him  down  from  his  horse.  The  animal  bounded  for* 
ward  in  terror,  and  rushed  off  like  the  wind. 

Bruised  by  his  fall,  half-suffocated  by  the  grasp  of  his  un- 
known assailant,  Hegio  lay  on  the  ground;  but  bruises  and 
suffocation  were  forgotten  in  the  deadly  fear  that  rushed 
through  his  soul;  for  he  had  the  most  craven  spirit  that  ever 
animated  a  human  form.  He  was  one  of  those  who  can  die 
from  fright,  and  now  all  his  strength  ebbed  away  in  a  paialysis 
of  fear. 

He  tried  to  gasp  out  words  of  entreaty,  but  in  vain. 

One  hand  was  on  his  throat,  another  fumbled  at  his  waist, 
and  loosened  the  rich  girdle  that  encircled  it  For  a  moment 
the  grasp  on  his  throat  was  relaxed. 

"  Spare  me,"  cridd  Hegio,  as  he  found  breath.  "  I'll  give 
you  gold,  if  you  want  it.  I  am  an  imperial  officer.  Beware 
how  you  harm  me.  You  will  suffer  for  it.  I  will  pay  anything 
— name  your  price." 

The  only  answer  was  a  tight  bandage  forced  over  his  mouth 
and  into  it,  like  a  gag,  from  his  girdle,  which  his  assailant  had 
twisted  into  shape,  and  now  firmly  bound  around  him,  so  that 
it  effectually  prevented  him  from  making  any  sound. 

Then,  turning  him  over  on  his  face,  the  unknown  assailant 
sat  on  his  shoulders,  and  seizing  his  arms  forced  them  behind 
him,  and  taking  his  own  girdle  pinioned  them  in  that  place 
tightly.     Hegio  felt  like  a  child  in  the  grasp  of  his  enemy. 

Then  the  assailant  rose,  and  holding  Hegio  firmly,  bade 
him  rise  also.  Without  a  word,  he  pushed  him  along  before 
him.  Hegio  saw  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  they  went  toward 
the  Esquiline;  but  fear  came  over  him,  and  dread  suspicion, 
as  he  saw  that  he  was  forced  toward  the  ruins  of  Labeo's 
house. 

Those  ruins  yet  remained.  The  walls  had  fallen  in  most 
parts;  but  on  one  side  about  half  the  height  still  stood  erect 


THE  AVENGER. 


305 


most 
erect 


To  this  shadowy  form  where  the  dark  wall  arose  Hegio  felt 
himself  impelled,  and,  incapable  of  speech  or  resistance,  he 
walked  on.  '  / 

At  last  they  stopped  before  an  opening  which  led  into  the 
vaults  beneath  the  house.  All  was  intensely  dark.  For  a 
moment  he  struggled,  and  tried  to  hold  back,  but  the  force  of 
his  captor  was  too  great.  He  had  to  descend.  The  steps 
were  still  covered  with  bea*ns  and  ashes.  Down  these  the 
wretched  prisoner  was  forced,  and  his  captor  followed.  At  last 
they  reached  the  bottom. 

Then  Hegio  felt  himself  dragged  along  some  distance  in  the 
intense  darkness.  His  fear  was  greater  than  ever.  In  that 
moment  he  tasted  of  the  bitterness  of  death. 

Then  Hegio  was  commanded  to  lie  down.  He  started  back 
and  refused.  In  an  instant  he  was  thrown  down  violently,  and 
his  captor  again  held  him  down. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  away  your  gag,"  said  a  stern  and  awful 
voice,  in  a  rude  foreign  accent,  which  was  unknown  to  Hegia 
"  But  I  hold  a  dagger  at  your  heart,  and  if  you  utter  one  cry, 
you  die.    Answer  me,  and  say  nothing  more." 

The  gag  was  then  removed. 

"  Spare  me,"  gasped  Hegio.     "  If  you  want  gold — '* 

"  Peace,  fool,  or  you  die.  Answer  my  questions,"  said  the 
deep,  stern  voice. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  The  lady  and  the  boy." 

At  that  word  a  cry  was  heard  in  the  darkness  of  the  vault 

Hegio  started,  and  screamed. 

But  the  gripe  of  his  assailant  still  held  his  throat 

"  Fool !  if  you  scream  again  you  die,"  cried  his  enemy,  and 
holding  more  tightly,  he  tried  to  peer  through  the  gloom. 
"  Whoever  comes  near,  dies,"  he  cried. 

"  Who  is  here  ?"  said  a  voice,  whose  tones  were  familiar  in- 
deed to  Hegio  and  Galdus. 

(188)  ao 


^  '.i 


If 


\ 


306 


THE  A  VENGEK. 


Galdus  uttered  a  cry  of  joy.  Hegio  fell  into  a  new  agony 
of  fear. 

"Master I  Friend!  Labeo!"  called  Galdus.  "We  have 
him  here.     I  know  where  they  are.     All  is  not  lost." 

"  What  do  you  mean  1 "  said  Labeo,  in  an  awful  voice.  "  Will 
you  dare  to  tell  me  to  hope  1 " 

"  I  tell  you,  we  can  save  them  yet.  I  followed  them,  and 
saw  all." 

"Where  are  you,  my  saviour  and  my  friend  1"  cried  Labeo, 
whose  voice  was  broken  by  emotion. 

"  Here,  by  the  door  of  the  wine-vault.  Here ;  come  here  j 
come  to  me  and  share  my  joy,  for  I  have  caught  him." 

"  Caught  who  ?"  said  Labeo,  in  bewilderment,  coming  up  and 
touching  the  shoulder  of  Galdus.  "  Who  is  it  that  you  have 
brought  here  1 " 

"  Hegio." 

At  this  Hegio  uttered  a  shriek. 

"  Peace,  dog  ! — must  I  strike  you  to  the  heart  ? "  said  Galdus, 
in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Have  you  caught  that  viper  1"  said  Labeo,  scornfully.  "  He 
is  yours.  Do  as  you  like.  I  care  nothing.  But,  O  my  noble 
friend — saviour  of  my  son — come,  let  us  haste ;  if  you  know 
where  they  are,  let  us  save  them  now,  or  die ;  let  us  lose  no 
time." 

"Wait  a  moment.  I  must  ask  the  dog  something,"  said 
Galdus. 

"  Answer  me,"  he  cried,  imperiously,  turning  to  Hegio. 

"  Speak,"  gasped  Hegio. 

"  Will  you  deliver  back  the  lady  and  the  boy  in  safety,  for 
your  life  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  Hegio,  eagerly ;  "  only  let  me  go,  and  I 
swear  that  before  midnight " — 

"  Fool !  that  is  not  what  I  asked.  Let  you  go  !  No,  no, — 
not  till  the  lady  and  boy  stand  free  before  us." 


agon> 

have 

"  Will 

tn,  and 

Labeo, 

e  here ; 

r  up  and 
DU  have 


r//£  A  VENGER. 


30? 


Galdus, 

iy.  ''He 

ly  noble 

»u  know 

lose  no 

ig,"  said 

;io. 

lafety,  for 

[o,  and  I 

To,  no, — 


Hegio  groaned. 

"  Give  us  a  mandate  to  the  guard  to  let  them  go,  and  if  they 
are  delivered  to  us  we  will  come  back  and  free  you."       ' 

Hegio  groaned.  '  ' 

**  They  will  not  obey  a  mandate  from  me.  But  only  let  me 
see  Tigellinus." 

"  Never.  You  go  not  hence  till  they  are  free.  Will  not  your 
order  free  them  % " 

'•  No.  They  are  imperial  prisoners.  Only  the  order  of 
Tigellinus  or  Nero  can  free  them." 

"  What  can  you  do,  then  1 " 

"  Let  me  see  Tigellinus,  and  I  can  persuade  him." 

"  It  is  a  waste  of  words,"  cried  Labeo.  "  He  speaks  truly  j 
he  has  no  power.  He  is  no  better  than  a  slave.  Leave  him, 
and  let  us  haste  away." 

"  Tell  me  this  much,"  said  Galdus.  "  How  many  guards  are 
there  in  that  house  1 " 

"What  house  1" 

"  Answer  me,  and  don't  ask  questions — the  house  where  they 
are  imprisoned." 

"  Only  two." 

"  The  two  that  were  left  1  are  there  no  others  1 " 

«  None." 

"  If  I  find  you  have  deceived  me,  it  will  be  worse  for  you." 

"  It  is  true,"  groaned  Hegio  \  "  there  are  only  two." 

"Away,  then,"  cried  Labeo.  "We  lose  time  with  this 
wretch.     Haste." 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Galdus. 

He  gagged  Hegio  once  more.  Then  he  bound  his  feet 
tightly  in  a  position  which  left  him  utterly  incapable  of  motion. 
Then,  lifting  him  in  his  arms  with  the  air  of  one  who  was  per 
fectly  familiar  with  the  place  even  amid  the  gloom,  he  walked 
on  into  a  place  further  away  from  the  entrance.  It  was  the 
wine-vault.     The  door  had  been  broken  from  its  hinges,  and  lay 


3o8 


THE  A  VENGER. 


h    1 


on  the  floor.  Galdus  lifted  it  into  its  place,  and  secured  the 
chain,  w'lich  yet  remained  there,  by  a  bolt,  so  that  it  made  the 
place  a  safe  prison  even  if  Hegio  should  be  able  to  remove  his 

t 

bonds. 

All  this  took  but  a  short  time.  Then  Galdus  and  Labeo 
hurried  away.     Galdus  led  the  way. 

"  Are  you  armed  ? "  said  he,  as  they  emerged  from  the  vault 

Labeo  showed  him  his  dagger. 

"  That  is  well.    We  will  need  it." 

And  then  they  went  at  a  rapid  pace  toward  the  Campus 
Martius. 

At  last  they  arrived  at  the  house.  Two  guards  stood  at  the 
door,  and  the  moon,  which  was  just  rising,  illumined  the  scene. 
Galdus  did  not  know  whether  these  were  the  same  guards  that 
had  first  been  put  ihere,  or  whether  they  had  been  relieved. 
But  he  cared  not. 

When  these  two  men  saw  the  new-comers,  they  rose  and 
asked  them  what  they  wanted. 

"  I  am  Sulpicius  Labeo,  of  the  Praetorian  guard,  and  I  have 
come  for  the  prisoners  who  are  here." 

"  Your  warrant,"  said  the  guard. 

*'  Here  it  is,"  said  Galdus,  and  seizing  him  by  the  throat,  he 
hurled  him  to  the  ground. 

Labeo  caught  the  other  guard  in  his  arms,  and  held  him 
firmly. 

"  Don't  say  a  >yord,  or  you  die  ! "  said  he,  sternly. 

The  man  was  silent. 

After  a  short  struggle,  Galdus  had  succeeded  in  binding  his 
prisoner  securely.     The  man  lay  motionless  on  the  ground. 

"  Come  here,  now, "  said  Labeo,  when  Galdus  had  finished, 
"  and  bind  this  fellow's  hands." 

Galdus  did  so. 

"  Where  are  the  prisoners  ?    Tell,  or  you  die." 

"  I  will  not  tell  unless  you  promise  me  my  life,"  said  the  niaa 


THE  AVENGER. 


309 


"  Fool !  We  can  easily  find  them.  But  I  don't  want  your 
life.     Take  the  keys,  and  lead  us  to  them." 

"  My  hands  are  bound,"  said  the  guard.  "  The  keys  are  at 
my  waist.     Take  them,  and  I  will  lead  the  way." 

He  entered  the  house.  Galdus  took  the  lamp.  After  a  few 
paces  the  guard  stopped  before  a  door. 

With  a  trembling  hand  Labeo  unlocked  it.  He  took  the 
light,  and  Galdus  remained  guarding  the  soldier.  The  other 
one  was  left  outside. 

All  was  still  as  Labeo  entered.  But  there  wus  a  sight  which 
made  his  aching  heart  beat  fast  with  joy.  There  on  the  floor, 
on  a  pile  of  straw,  lay  the  gentle,  the  refined  lady,  and  the 
beautiful  boy  nestled  in  her  arms.  His  wife  and  son,  lost  but 
found  again,  not  panic-struck,  not  despairing,  but  in  a  calm 
sleep. 

Labeo  stooped  down  and  kissed  them,  and  hot  tears  fell  on 
the  face  of  his  wife.    She  started  and  screamed. 

Labeo  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  You  are  saved  !     Haste  !     Fly  ! " 

"  O  my  God  !  Thou  hast  heard  my  prayer ! "  cried  Helena, 
as  she  clung  to  her  husband  and  rose. 

"  Hush  !    Haste ! "  cried  Labeo. 

He  caught  up  his  son,  who  woke  and  found  himself  in  the 
arms  of  his  father.  But  there  was  no  time  for  words.  A  few 
broken  exclamations  of  wonder,  and  joy,  and  love — that  was 
all.  Labeo  hurried  out,  carrying  his  boy,  and  followed  by  his 
wife. 

"  Galdus,"  said  he,  "  put  both  the  guards  in  the  room,  and 
lock  them  in." 

Galdus  pushed  the  guard  in  who  was  with  him,  and  then 
went  out  and  dragged  in  the  other. 

Then  they  all  hurried  off. 

The  nearest  gate  was  some  distance  away,  and  to  this  they 
directed  their  steps. 


.1 


■41 


v 

% 


\ 


V 


' 


i 


If 


1',' 


\k 


\> 


m 


fe 


310 


r-ff£  ^  VENGER. 


"  Where  are  we  going  % "  said  Galdus. 

"  T^  tuc  catacombs." 

On  their  way  they  met  no  one.  That  way  lay  for  the  most 
part  through  a  burnt  district  which  had  not  been  rebuilt.  All 
was  silence  and  desolation. 

Soon  Helena  complained  of  weakness.  The  fatigue  and  the 
excitement  both  of  grief  and  joy  had  been  too  much  for  her. 

Then  Labeo  gave  Marcus  into  the  arms  of  the  Briton,  and 
taking  Helena  in  his  own  arms,  they  walked  along  as  before. 

Soon  they  came  to  the  gate,  and  the  guards  offered  no 
resistance,  xhey  passed  through  into  one  of  the  roads  or 
streets  outside,  and  turning  to  the  right,  went  along  a  side  roai 
till  they  came  to  the  Appian  Way.  Then  along  this  road  they 
passed,  till  at  last  they  came  to  the  place  at  which  the  Christians 
entered  the  catacom*bs.  Cineas  had  once  pointed  this  out  to 
Labeo,  and  the  latter  remembered  it  well. 

A  man  was  standing  at  a  little  distance,  and  as  they  came  up 
he  advanced  and  looked  at  them.  In  the  moonlight  they 
could  see  that  he  was  a  fossor. 

"  Who  are  you  1 "  he  asked,  mildly. 

"  One  of  us  is  a  Christian,"  said  Labeo,  who  rightly  thought 
that  this  man  was  a  kind  of  scout  for  the  fugitives  below. 

"  We  seek  safety,"  said  Labeo.  "  Can  you  show  us  the  wayl 
Take  me  to  Juhus.     Do  you  know  him  1 " 

Witliout  a  word  the  man  went  down  and  the  rest  followed. 
At  the  bottom  he  lighted  a  torch,  and  went  along  the  winding 
paths  for  some  distance.  At  last  he  came  to  a  place  where  two 
or  three  men  were  asleep.    One  of  these  he  awoke. 

It  A"as  Julius. 

He  looked  up  with  a  bewildered  air. 

"Labeo!  What,  you  have  brought  her  here,  after  all. 
Thank  God." 

"  Can  you  find  a  place  where  she  can  rest  1 "  asked  Labeo. 

Julius  at  once  arose,  aiiu  led  the  way.     But  here  Galdus 


THE  AVENGER. 


3" 


asktd  the  fossor  to  lead  him  out  again,  as  he  wished  to  do 
something  in  the  city,  which  he  had  to  attend  to.  Julius  took 
Marcus  from  him,  and  Galdus  departed.  Labeo  scarce  thought 
of  his  departure  just  then,  in  his  eagerness  to  get  a  place  of 
rest  for  his  wife.     He  thought  of  it  afterward,  however. 

Juli'is  took  them  to  a  place  where  Lydia  was,  and  then  the 
young  girl  was  awakened,  and  in  her  joy  zX  Helena's  safety 
could  scarce  find  words.  For  she  had  heard  from  Julius  the 
great  danger  that  impended. 

Soon  a  place  was  found  where  Helena  could  rest.  Weary 
and  worr*  out,  she  soon  sank  into  sleep,  and  Marcus  slept  with 
her. 

Then  Labeo  told  Julius  all. 

"  And  have  you,  indeed,  gone  through  all  this  since  I  saw 
you  last  1 "  said  he.  "  But  how  did  you  and  Galdus  happen  to 
meet  at  that  same  place  % " 

"  I,"  said  Labeo,  "  had  gone  to  find  the  emperor,  and  ask 
safety  for  my  wife  and  son.  If  he  had  refused,  I  would  have 
stabbed  him,  and  then  myself.  It  was  the  thought  of  vengeance 
that  sustained  me.  Galdus  had  his  own  plans,  ind  could  Iiave 
delivered  them  without  me,  and  would  have  done  so;  b\it  I 
don't  know  where  he  could  have  concealed  them ;  perhaps  in 
the  vaults.    Yes  ;  that  must  have  been  his  intention," 

"  And  where  is  Galdus  now  1 " 

Labeo  started. 

"  He  is  gone  !  Ah,  Hegio !  I  see  your  fate  in  this !  Yes, 
the  Briton  will  not  be  cheated  of  his  vengeance." 

"  What  do  you  mean  1 " 

"  Galdus  left  at  once  when  we  first  arri^  ed.  He  can  only 
have  one  purpose,  to  have  his  revenge  on  Hegio." 

Julius  said  nothing.  What  that  revenge  was  to  be,  they  could 
not  form  an  idea.     The  barbarian  had  his  own  ways. 

Labeo  could  not  sleep ;  but  it  was  not  sorrow  that  made  him 
wakeful.     The  revulsion  from  despair  to  hope  was  great.     In 


ifii 

:l|  ^ 
i'li'f 


m 


'f:' 


'■Hf 


ll?E 


i 


I 


JI2 


THE  A  VENGER. 


the  thought  of  present  safety  he  lost  sight  of  the  future.  The 
gloom,  the  damp,  and  the  rough  rocks  that  surrounded  him 
were  all  forgotten.  One  great  joy  filled  his  soul,  and  that  was 
that  he  had  rescued  his  wife  and  boy. 

When  Galdus  left  the  catacombs,  he  walked  rapidly  back 
toward  the  city.  It  was  now  not  more  than  three  hours  past 
midnight,  and  the  moon  shone  brightly. 

In  his  pursuit  during  the  previous  part  of  the  night  he  had 
meditated  many  things. 

He  knew  that  to  which  Hegio  had  doomed  the  boy  and  his 
mother, — death,  a  death  by  fire.  Fire  had  formed  a  con- 
spicuous part  in  the  acts  of  Hegio.  Galdus  yet  bore  the  scars 
of  flames  kindled  by  him.  This  was  the  second  time  that  he 
had  saved  Marcus  from  that  fate. 

He  had  thought  oVer  all  this  in  his  pursuit.  He  had  fed  his 
fierce  barbaric  soul  with  this  one  hope.  He  had  planned  all 
his  course,  and  knew  how  it  should  be  decided. 

He  entered  the  city  and  reached  the  Esquiline,  and  the  ruins 
of  Labeo's  house  at  last  rose  before  him, — a  reminder  of  what 
he  had  suffered,  a  goad  to  his  vengeful  passion. 

The  vaults  were  dark  and  silent.  He  feared  that  he  might 
be  robbed  of  his  prey.  If  that  iron  hand  of  his  could  have 
irembled,  then  it  would  have  done  so  as  in  his  impatience  he 
felt  the  fastenings  of  the  door  of  the  dungeon. 

They  had  been  untouched. 

He  tore  open  the  door — he  sprang  in.  There  lay  his  victim 
yet.     He  dragged  him  out  into  the  outer  vault. 

Hegio  could  say  nothing  and  do  nothing.  It  was  as  well. 
The  nature  of  Galdus  was  inexorable. 

He  unbound  the  arms  of  He^io,  and  drew  off  his  outer  robe 
and  his  costume.  These  had  the  decorations  which  indicated 
a  servant  of  the  imperial  household.  These  Galdus  laid  aside. 
Then,  taking  off  his  own  tunic,  he  put  it  on  Hegio.  After  this, 
he  dressed  himself  in  Hegio's  clothes. 


THE  AVENGER. 


313 


Hegio,  while  his  arras  were  free,  made  a  desperate  attempt  to 
unfasten  the  gag,  but  Galdus  sternly  ordered  him  to  desist,  and 
displayed  his  dagger.  -'       ■  j 

Then  he  raised  his  hands  imploringly,  but  to  no  purpose. 
For,  after  Galdus  had  completed  his  dress,  he  pinioned  the 
arms  of  Hegio  once  more. 

Then  he  unbound  his  feet. 

Holding  him  then  by  the  end  of  the  fastening  that 
bound  his  arms,  Galdus  led  him  out  of  the  vaults  and  down 
the  hill,  and  over  the  waste  place,  toward  the  Campus 
Martius. 

Hegio  made  no  resistance.  He  thought  he  was  being  led  to 
the  prison  in  which  he  had  confined  the  mother  and  child,  so 
as  to  assist  in  some  plan  of  delivery. 

To  his  surprise,  when  they  reached  the  Campus  Martius,  his 
captor  kept  straight  on  toward  the  Tiber,  where  the  bridge 
crossed  that  led  to  the  Vatican. 

Crossing  the  bridge,  they  reached  the  entrance  to  the  gardens. 

Here  they  were  stopped  by  guards. 

"  I  have  brought  a  Christian  arrested  to-night,  and  he  is 
ordered  for  instant  execution." 

At  these  words  Hegio  gave  a  wild  bound  backward.  But 
Galdus  held  him  firmly.  The  soldiers  stepped  forward  and 
seized  the  prisoner. 

"  He  is  to  be  clothed  in  the  tunica  molesta  and  burned." 

"Whenl" 

"  Now." 

"  Who  are  you,  and  what  is  your  authority  1" 

"  Here,"  said  Galdus,  showing  a  ring  which  he  had  taken 
from  his  prisoner's  finger.  The  soldiers  looked  at  it,  but  did 
not  seem  to  see  anything  in  it.  But  Galdus's  dress  showed 
that  he  must  be  some  one  in  authority. 

"  Who  are  you  T 

"  Hegio,"  said  Galdus,  "  of  the  imperial  household.     This 


i 


'I 


Hi 


^i 


! 


V] 


M 

M 

y 

si 


i! 


*  t 


314 


THE  A  VENGER. 


man  is  ordered  for  immediate  execution,  and  I  am  to  stay  to 
see  that  it  is  performed." 

The  soldiers  thought  it  was  all  right.  So  many  Christians 
had  been  brought  there  to  be  burned,  that  it  was  a  very  common 
thing  to  them.  So,  without  further  questioning,  they  led  Hegio 
away,  and  Galdus  followed. 

The  soldiers  took  down  the  name  which  Galdus  gave  as  that 
of  the  prisoner.     It  was,  "  Galdus,  a  Briton." 

The  true  Galdus  watched  the  false  Galdus  suffer. 

There  was  no  horror  in  his  mind  at  the  scene.  He  had 
watched  such  sights  before.  He  had  seen  the  hideous  spectacles 
which  the  Druids  exhibited,  when  scores  of  hapless  wretches 
were  burned  in  wicker  cages.  He  had  seen  his  own  relatives 
suffer  thus.     He  found  no  difficulty  in  looking  on  an  enemy. 

The  wretched  Hbgio  could  say  nothing,  and  do  nothing. 
His  eyes  and  face  expressed  his  agony.  Too  well  he  knew 
what  was  before  him.  But  that  agony  only  filled  Galdus  with 
exultation. 

The  victim  was  covered  with  the  usual  coat  of  tar  and  flax, 
and  bound  to  the  stake. 

Then  the  torch  was  applied. 


II 


/" 


XXVIII. 

URING  this  time,  Cineas  had  been  ignorant  of  every- 
thing. Plunged  in  grief,  and  afflicted  with  the  worst 
apprehensions,  he  dreaded  the  impending  calami- 
ties, yet  knew  not  how  to  avoid  them.  After  Labeo 
had  left  he  remained,  and  gave  way  to  the  most  gloomy  fears. 
With  folded  arms  he  paced  up  and  down  restlessly  for  many 
hours,  trying  in  vain  to  think  of  some  way  by  which  he  might 
rescue  the  captives. 

At  last,  unable  to  think  of  anything,  and  unable  also  to 
endure  his  misery,  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  toward 
Rome.  In  his  despair,  he  resolved  upon  one  step  which  he 
would  not  take  to  save  his  own  life,  but  brought  himself  to  for 
the  sake  of  these  dear  ones.     That  was  to  appeal  to  Tigellinus. 

It  was  early  morning  when  he  reached  Rome,  and  he  went 
at  once  to  the  house  of  Nero's  favourite.  A  great  crowd  of 
clients  already  beset  the  doors,  waiting  to  pay  their  respects  to 
their  patron.  Cineas  made  his  way  through  these,  and  by 
liberal  bribery  induced  the  servants  to  awaken  Tigellinus,  and 
convey  to  him  a  request  for  an  interview. 

Perhaps  nothing  could  have  given  greater  joy  to  this  man. 
To  have  Cineas,  the  favourite  of  Nero,  the  intellectual,  the 
virtuous,  the  proud  Cineas,  the  man  who  stood  in  a  position  in 
which  he  could  never  be,  to  have  such  a  man  coming  to  him  as 
a  suppliant  was  sweet  indeed.     Tigellinus  saw  how  heavily  the 


rill 


*J 


ii 


n 
I 


»r 


-        ' 


316 


FREEDOM. 


blow  had  fallen,  since  it  had  crushed  a  man  like  this.  He  was 
eager  to  see  him,  and  hurried  out  to  the  chief  hall,  into  which 
Cineas  had  been  admitted. 

Cineas  gravely  saluted  him.  He  was  very  pale,  but  calm 
and  dignified.  There  was  nothing  of  fear  or  of  servility  in  the 
haughty  Megacleid,  but  a  certain  lofty  demeanour,  which  was 
gall  and  wormwood  to  Tigellinus. 

Cineas  at  once  proceeded  to  business.  After  apologizing 
for  such  an  intrusion,  he  said, — 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  My  sister  and  her  child 
are  under  arrest.  I  wish  to  save  them,  and  come  to  you.  No 
one  knows  your  power  better  than  I.  State  what  you  wish  tO 
be  done,  and  I  will  do  it." 

Tigellinus  lowered  his  eyes  before  the  calm  and  penetrating 
gaze  of  Cineas,  and  refused  to  look  him  in  the  face. 

"They  are  prisoners  of  state.  The  law  has  control  over 
them.     What  can  I  do  ?"  he  answered. 

"  You  don't  understand  me,"  said  Cineas.  "  This  is  what  I 
wish.  I  came  here  to  ransom  them  at  any  cost,  no  matter 
what." 

"  They  cannot  be  ransomed.  You  must  appeal  to  the  state, 
not  to  me." 

"  Their  life  is  worth  more  to  me,"  said  Cineas,  without  heed- 
ing what  Tigellinus  had  said,  "  than  a  thousand  others.  Will 
you  take  a  thousand  in  exchange  %  I  will  give  you  for  them  a 
thousand  slaves." 

"  I  have  told  you,"  said  Tigellinus,  '*  that  I  can  do  nothing. 
They  are  not  in  my  power.     You  must  go  to  Caesar." 

"  You  will  not  understand  me,"  said  Cineas,  coldly.  "  Have 
I  not  said  that  I  will  ransom  them  at  any  cost  ?"  And  he 
placed  strong  emphasis  on  these  words.  "  I  am  rich.  Name 
your  price.     Whatever  you  ask,  I  will  give." 

The  eyes  of  Tigellinus  sparkled  for  a  moment  with  avaricious 
longing.     But  he  immediately  replied, — 


^, 


FREEDOM. 


317 


"  You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  I  am  not  their 
owner.  They  are  not  slaves.  They  are  prisoners.  If  they 
were  in  my  power,  I  could  not  sell  them.  I  would  try  them 
by  the  laws,  and  if  they  were  innocent  I  would  let  them  go 
free." 

"  Name  your  price,"  said  Cineas,  with  the  same  disregard  of 
what  the  other  had  said.  "  Name  it.  Will  millions  buy 
them?" 

Tigellinus  looked  for  a  moment  at  Cineas,  and  then  looked 
down.  A  great  struggle  arose  within  him.  Avarice  was  strong. 
Millions  were  not  to  be  so  easily  gained  every  day.  But  then 
there  arose  a  stronger  feeling — hate ;  and  there  came  with  it 
jealousy  and  revenge,  and  these  all  overmastered  the  other. 
It  would  be  worth  millions  to  crush  the  man  whom  he  so 
hated.  Perhaps,  also,  all  those  millions  might  be  his,  and 
while  revenge  would  be  satiated,  avarice  also  would  gain  all 
that  it  wished. 

With  such  feelings  and  thoughts  as  these,  he  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am  powerless.  This  is  not  a  thing  of 
money ;  it  belongs  to  law." 

"  Millions  !"  said  Cineas,  with  strong  impressiveness. 

"  Enough,"  answered  Tigellinus,  rising  and  trying  to  assume 
an  appearance  of  dignity.  "  You  know  not  what  you  are  doing. 
You  are  trying  to  violate  law  by  bribing  a  minister.  I  cannot 
thus  allow  myself  to  be  insulted  by  dishonourable  proposals.  I 
have  told  you  that  these  prisoners  are  in  the  hands  of  the  law. 
That  law  must  take  its  course." 

Cineas  said  no  more.  He  understood  pretty  accurately  the 
motives  that  actuated  Tigellinus,  and  saw  that  all  efforts  here 
were  worse  than  useless,  since  he  was  exposed  to  ignominy 
without  any  chance  of  succeeding  in  his  wishes.  So,  without 
another  word,  he  withdrew. 

Slowly  and  sadly  he  departed,  thinking  what  might  be  best 
to  be  done.     Could  he  not  use  his  wealth  in  another  way. 


m 
if 


?^ 


I 


I 


Ufc 


^!  «' 


«;! 


318 


FREEDOM. 


3 


ll 


Could  he  not  hire  a  band  of  desperadoes,  and  find  out  the 
place  where  the  prisoners  were  confined,  and  rescue  them. 
The  desperadoes  could  easily  be  found.  Rome  was  full  of 
them.  But  more  than  this  had  to  be  done.  If  he  rescued 
them,  what  then  ?  Where  could  he  fly  1  True,  there  were  the 
catacombs ;  bi«t  that  seemed  almost  as  bad  as  death. 

Then  he  thought  of  Nero.  Might  not  something  be  done 
there  1  Nero  might  grant  him  this  thing — his  first  and  only 
request.  It  was  impossible  that  Nero  could  feel  any  interest 
in  this  thing.  It  was  evidently  the  act  of  Tigellinus  alone. 
Nero,  in  his  profound  indifference,  might  grant  him  this,  and 
think  nothing  of  it. 

This  seemed  his  only  resource. 

Then  he  thought  of  Labeo,  and  his  dagger,  and  his  frenzy. 
What  would  be  the  result  of  this  ?  He  had  gone  to  seek  Nero. 
Would  he  find  himi  There  would  be  an  appeal  to  Caesar 
before  his,  and  if  this  first  appeal  failed,  what  then  1  Would 
Labeo,  in  his  u^spair,  do  as  he  had  threatened,  and  use  his 
daggev  against  the  emperor  1 

Perplexed  and  disturbed,  he  rode  along,  but  finally  thought 
that  the  shortest  way  to  end  all  doubts  was  to  go  at  once  to  the 
emperor.  He  knew  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost ;  the  necessity 
of  the  hour  called,  above  all,  for  haste. 

He  yielded  to  this  feeling  out  of  pure  despair.  It  might  be 
better ;  it  could  not  be  worse.     He  would  go  to  Caesar. 

Full  of  this  thought  he  rode  toward  the  palace  in  the  Vatican 
Gardens.  He  came  to  the  Campus  Martius,  and  crossing  over 
it,  drew  near  to  the  bridge  which  spanned  the  river. 

Now,  as  he  drew  near  to  the  bridge,  his  attention  was  arrested 
by  one  who  crossed  it  z  id  came  toward  him. 

His  figure  was  remarkable.  Clothed  in  the  costume  of  one 
who  belonged  to  the  imperial  household,  he  yet  had  the  features 
of  some  northern  barbarian.  His  flaxen  hair,  his  heavy  beard 
and  moustache,  gave  hira  a  wild  and  savage  air. 


% 


r 


FREEDOM. 


%l% 


There  could  be  no  mistake  in  that  face. 

It  was  Galdus. 

Full  of  amazement  at  this  encounter,  and  at  such  a  trans- 
formation, Cineas  stopped  his  horse  mechanically,  and  stared 
in  wonder  at  the  new-comer.  The  other  advanced  with  a 
strange  smile  of  triumph  in  his  face. 

"  Galdus  I"  cried  Cineas. 

"  Rejoice  !"  exclaimed  the  other.     "  All  are  saved."    .• 

"Saved!"  responded  Cineas;  and  he  could  say  no  more. 
A.  full  tide  of  joy  rushed  through  him — ^joy  too  great  for  utter- 
ance. Yet  that  joy  was  equalled,  if  not  surpassed,  by  his 
astonishment. 

'*  What  is  all  this  ]  How  are  they  saved  1  Is  it  really  true  1 
And  what  means  this  dress  1  What  are  you  doing  here  1  Where 
are  theyl" 

Cineas  would  have  poured  forth  a  whole  torrent  of  such 
questions,  if  Galdus  had  not  checked  him. 

"  It  is  dangerous  to  stand  talking  here,"  he  said.  "  We  must 
hurry  away,  and  that  quickly.  We  have  been  doing  things  this 
night  that  will  send  all  Rome  after  us  to  hunt  us  up." 

"The  emperor]"  faltered  Cineas,  thinking  of  Labeo's 
threat. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  him.  We  have  had  to  do 
with  men  of  another  sort.  But  haste — come — follow  me;  I 
will  tell  you  where  they  are,  and  will  tell  you  all." 

Saying  this,  Galdus  hurried  on  with  great  strides,  and  Cineas 
turned  and  followed.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  till  they  had  left 
the  city  gates.     Then  Galdus  told  him  all. 

He  told  him  of  his  own  pursuit  and  his  capture  of  Hegio ; 
of  his  meeting  with  I.abeo,  and  their  rescue  of  the  prisoners. 
Finally  he  told  him,  in  words  of  terrible  import,  of  his  vengeance 
on  Hegio. 

Such  vengeance  made  Cineas  shudder  in  the  midst  of  his  joy. 
He  looked  with  wonder  on  this  man,  whose  affection  made  him 


hm 


V-\ 


r  T 
i    ,1 


n 


I      I 


3*0 


FREEDOM. 


L 


as  tender  as  a  mother  to  Marcus,  but  whose  revenge  was  so 
fearful  on  an  enemy. 

Where  would  all  this  end  1  The  deed  had  been  one  of  no 
common  kind.  In  that  rescue  the  majesty  of  the  state  had 
been  violated,  and  to  this  offence  there  had  been  added  a  worse 
crime. 

With  such  thoughts  they  reached  the  entrance  to  the  cata- 
combs— a  place  sufficiently  familiar  to  Cineas,  yet  one  which 
he  shuddered  to  think  of  as  the  retreat  of  Helena  and  Marcus. 

Down  the  descent  they  went,  and  along  the  passage-way,  and 
soon  Cineas  found  those  whom  he  had  given  up  for  lost. 

In  the  joy  of  that  reunion  one  or  two  days  passed,  and  the 
gloom  was  lightened  by  the  thought  of  safety.  But  soon,  when 
safety  became  familiar,  there  arose  a  deep  sadness  in  all.  How 
could  such  a  life  be  endured,  and  what  was  that  life  worth  ?  It 
might  last  long ;  and  such  tender  ones  as  Helena  and  Marcus 
could  have  nothing  before  them  but  death. 

Cineas  sickened,  and  grew  hopeless  among  these  dreary 
shades,  where  the  tombs  of  the  dead  appeared  on  every  side. 

He  grew  desperate.  He  determined  to  risk  his  life  to  save 
those  whom  he  loved.     Why  should  he  not  ? 

Nero  had  always  yielded  to  the  influence  which  he  nad  thus 
far  contrived  to  exercise.     Why  should  he  not  try  it  now] 

He  determined  to  do  so. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  he  departed  on  this  purpose. 
Nero  had  returned  to  Rome,  and  Cineas  found  him  in  the 
palace  in  the  Vatican. 

He  went  there  boldly,  and  entered  the  presence  of  Caesar 
with  the  air  of  a  privileged  person.  He  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  risk  all  in  this  one  venture. 

As  he  entered,  he  saw  that  Tigellinus  was  there  too. 

Nero  had  only  returned  to  Rome  on  that  morning.  Tigel- 
linus had  been  telling  him  a  long  story.  It  was  about  this 
arrest,  and  the  rescue  of  the  prisoners,  and  the  death  of  the 


FREEDOM. 


3ai 


Caesar 
is  mind 


Tigel- 

|)ut  this 

of  the 


guard.  The  other  soldier  had  been  found  in  the  morning  locked 
up  in  the  room  in  which  the  prisoners  had  been  confined. 
Hegio  had  also  disappeared  most  mysteriously.  This  was  what 
Tigellinus  had  to  tell.     Nero  looked  enraged  and  angry. 

As  soon  as  Cineas  entered,  Nero  regarded  him  with  an  evil 
smile. 

Now  Cineas  had  put  on  the  most  radiant  and  joyous  expres- 
sion. He  had  made  up  his  mind  not  merely  to  death,  but  to 
humiliation.  He  determined  to  stoop  to  any  flattery,  or  any 
sacrifice  of  self-respect,  if  by  so  doing  he  might  influence  Nero 
in  his  favour,  for  the  sake  of  Helena.  This  armed  him  at  all 
points. 

"  So,"  said  Nero,  dryly ;  "  you  are  here  at  last.  Why  have 
you  not  been  here  before  1 " 

Cineas  pleaded  delicacy  of  feeling.  Caesar  had  been  in  dan- 
ger, and  had  been  engaged  in  a  work  of  self-preservation,  and 
punishment  of  his  enemies.  He  could  not  think  of  intruding 
such  trifles  as  he  had  to  offer  to  Caesar's  notice  at  such  a  time. 
But  he  had  come  ai  soon  as  he  thought  circumstances  could 
warrant  it. 

All  this,  which  was  expressed  with  an  easy  grace,  and  a  deli- 
cacy of  flattery  peculiar  to  Cineas  alone,  seemed  very  agreeable 
to  Nero.    Yet  he  still  maintained  a  harsh  demeanour. 

"  Athenian,"  said  he,  in  a  mocking  tone,  "  you  who  admire 
Socrates  so  greatly,  do  you  think  you  have  enough  of  his  philo- 
sophy to  die  like  him  ?  For,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  think- 
ing very  seriously  of  trying  some  such  experiment  on  you." 

Cineas  smiled  gayly.  "  Yes,"  he  answered ;  "  I  think  so. 
But  before  you  try  it,  you  must  let  me  tell  you  the  best  story 
that  ever  either  you  or  I  have  heard  in  our  lives.  It  is  a  real 
one,  too,  and  I  have  but  lately  heard  it." 

Nero  was  charmed  by  his  gay  indifference,  and  his  curiosity 
was  excited  at  the  idea  of  a  story ;  for  no  one  loved  a  story 
better  than  he,  and  no  one  could  tell  a  story  better  than  Cineas. 

(183)  21 


m 


B     I  |i: 


3*2 


FREEDOM. 


■  i 


'ik!. 


:t 


"  Yon  glorious  philosopher  I  "  he  cried,  changing  his  whole 
manner  into  one  which  was  like  his  old  cordiality.  "  Never 
yet  have  I  met  with  a  man  who  could  hear  such  words  as  these 
from  me." 

"What  words?"  said  Cineas,  indifferently.  "Oh,  about 
death.  "What  is  death  ?  I  don't  care  much  about  either  death 
or  life.  Death  ;  why  death  is  only  a  sort  of  transition  state,  a 
point  of  change  from  one  form  of  life  to  another.  Poison  me, 
or  burn  me,  whenever  you  like.  It  is  quite  a  matter  of  indif- 
ference to  me." 

At  this  Tigellinus  stared  in  stupid  and  unfeigned  amazement. 
Nero  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter. 

"  You  are  the  greatest  of  men,"  he  cried.  He  then  embraced 
Cineas  in  a  sort  of  rapture.  "  There  is  no  one  like  you.  O 
Cineas,  you  will  have  to  teach  me  your  splendid  indifference 
to  death." 

"  I  can  teach  nothing  to  one  like  you.  When  with  you  I  do 
not  teach  ;  I  learn,"  said  Cineas.  "  But  as  you  are  going  to 
kill  me,  I  must  make  haste  and  tell  my  story." 

"  Kill  you  !  I  wouldn't  kill  you  for  the  world.  Why,  man, 
you  are  a  wonder  among  men.  But  tell  me  this  story.  I  long 
to  hear  it." 

At  this  moment  Tigellinus  excused  himself  to  Nero,  and 
took  his  departure  in  deep  disgust.  He  saw  the  triumph  of 
Cineas,  and  he  was  both  puzzled  and  maddened  by  it.  What 
could  he  do — he,  a  vulgar  caterer  to  animal  passion — beside  a 
man  like  this,  who  jested  at  death,  and  laughed  in  the  very  face 
of  the  fearful  master  of  death  ? 

Then  Cineas  began  his  story.  He  exerted  himself  as  he 
had  never  done  before.  He  knew  the  over-mastering  love 
which  Nero  had  for  a  fine  dramatic  situation,  and  for  scenic 
effect.  So  he  threw  himself  with  his  whole  soul  into  his  narra- 
tive. And  never  were  his  wit  and  vivid  descriptive  power  so 
conspicuous  as  now.     Nero  listened  with  delight. 


FREEDOM. 


323 


vhole 
I^ever 
these 

about 
death 
tate,  a 
)n  me, 
'.  indif- 

ement. 

[braced 

DU.       O 

ference 

ou  I  do 
^oing  to 

y,  man, 
I  long 

iro,  and 
mph  of 
What 
reside  a 
ery  face 

f  as  he 
ig  love 
scenic 
Is  narra- 
lower  so 


He  began  with  a  description  of  Hegio — his  baseness,  his 
villany,  and  his  attempts  to  ruin  his  master,  which  had  ended 
in  his  own  dismissal.  * 

Then  he  showed  how  Hegio  had  tried  to  take  vengeance. 
He  told  of  the  burning  of  the  house,  and  the  departure  of 
Labeo  to  the  country. 

Hurrying  over  the  circumstances  of  the  arrest,  he  drew 
Nero's  attention  to  Galdus  as  he  followed  the  horseman. 
Nero  listened  breathlessly  to  the  story  of  the  avenger  on  the 
track  of  the  criminal ;  he  heard  how  Galdus  caught  Hegio,  and 
dragged  him  down,  and  bound  him  and  carried  him  away  to 
the  vaults. 

Then  came  the  story  of  the  rescue,  which  was  told  with 
thrilling  effect.  Nero  appeared  delighted  with  the  capture  of 
the  guards,  and  burst  forth  into  exclamations  of  rapture  about 
the  Briton. 

But  that  which  afforded  to  him  the  highest  and  most  enthu- 
siastic joy  was  the  final  vengeance  of  Galdus  on  Hegio.  To 
this  he  listened  in  breathless  excitement,  and  questioned 
Cineas  over  and  over  again. 

The  change  of  the  clothes  and  the  substitution  of  one  for 
the  other  seemed  admirable  to  him. 

•'  Oh,"  he  cried,  *'  if  Tigellinus  had  only  heard  this  !  He 
does  not  know  it.  He  brought  me  a  stupid  and  clumsy  version 
of  this  unparalleled  narrative.  His  story  was,  in  every  respect, 
commonplace.  This  is  divine.  He  has  not  heard  the  best 
part.  It  is  worthy  of  Sophocles.  It  would  make  the  plot  of 
a  tragedy  better  than  any  that  I  have  ever  met  with.  And  it 
shall  make  one.  I  myself  will  write  it.  I  will  make  this  story 
known  to  the  world.  I  will  make  this  glorious  Briton  im- 
mortal. 

"  But  where  is  he  ]"  he  cried.  "  VViiy  did  you  not  bring 
him  1  I  must  have  him  here  and  study  him.  He  is  a  living 
demi-god.     Bring  him  here  at  once." 


11 


I 


1^ 


' 


tt 


i  H 


r" 


n 


^4 


il 

t 


ri 


»34 


FREEDOM. 


Cineas  explained  that  they  were  all  fugitives. 

"  Fugitives  !  Why,  the  play  has  ended.  Let  them  go  home. 
All  of  them.  I  must  have  this  Briton,  and  he  shall  tell  me 
himself  how  he  felt  and  acted  when  he  watched  the  flames. 
Send  them  all  home,  I  will  give  you  leave.  I  will  write  a 
pardon  for  them  all.  They  have  performed  parts  in  a  narra- 
tive which  excels  all  that  ever  I  heard." 

And  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  Nero  wrote  out  a  formal 
pardon,  and  thrust  it  into  the  hand  of  Cineas. 

"  Bring  that  Briton  to  me,"  said  he.  "  I  must  see  him.  I 
must  see  my  Roman  again,  too.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with 
this.  It  was  all  Tigellinus.  But  it  has  turned  out  well.  It 
has  been  so  admirably  managed.  We  must  go  to  work  at  that 
tragedy,  Cineas.  Ypu  shall  advise.  I  will  have  the  benefit  of 
your  taste. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come.  I  am  tired  of  these  Christians. 
They  are  stupid.  There  is  no  more  pleasure  to  be  had  out  of 
them.  I  will  go  back  again  with  new  delight  to  my  art  and 
my  poetry.  We  will  renew  the  happy  hours  which  we  used  to 
pass  in  these  high  pursuits." 

So  Nero  spoke,  saying  much  more  of  a  similar  import,  all  of 
which  showed  that  the  literary  taste,  which  had  lain  dormant 
for  a  time,  had  revived  in  its  old  strength.  Cineas  entered 
with  apparent  ardour  into  all  the  plans  which  Nero  proposed. 
He  consented  to  do  anything  and  everything.  He  held  in  his 
hand  the  precious  document  which  gave  life  and  liberty  to  his 
friends.    That  was  all  that  he  wished. 


XXIX. 

|HEY  had  passed  three  days  in  the  catacombs.  How 
sweet  and  fair  seemed  the  face  of  nature  as  they 
emerged  and  saw  again  the  glad  and  glorious  sun- 
light, the  green  foliage,  the  rich  vegetation,  and  the 
abodes  of  man.  That  life  under-ground  had  a  double  horror  : 
it  was  in  darkness,  and  it  was  among  the  dead.  It  was  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  Alas  !  that  shadow  had  passed 
over  their  souls. 

There  was  a  great  change  in  Marcus.  His  sensitive  and 
impressible  nature  had  received  a  shock  which  promised  to  be 
more  than  temporary.  A  profound  melancholy,  which  seemed 
strange  and  unnatural  in  a  boy,  had  been  forced  upon  him. 
The  horror  of  that  darkness  had  impressed  itself  upon  his  soul. 
They  entered  again  upon  their  old  life  at  the  villa ;  but  that 
life,  such  as  it  once  was,  could  not  return  again.  It  was  not 
easy  to  obliterate  the  past.  All  the  house  was  filled  with  recol- 
lections of  that  night  of  agony,  when  Helena  clung  to  Labeo, 
and  Marcus  clung  to  Helena,  and  the  father,  in  his  anguish, 
looked  upon  the  retreating  forms  of  those  loved  ones,  lost,  as 
he  thought,  for  ever.  Helena  could  not  forget.  She  had 
brought  Lydia  back  with  her,  a  pale,  meditative  girl,  whose  life 
there  had  changed  her  nature,  and  whose  new  terror  had  filled 
with  a  settled  melancholy.  They  were  all  safe  now,  at  least  for 
the  present ;  but  that  great  danger  which  they  had  endured 


^m 


m 


•'  I 


■  I"; 

'  h 
tl'. 


iBI 


' 


1: 

4  I 


326 


CHANGES. 


seemed  to  make  all  life  less  sweet,  and  they  lived  and  spoke  as 
though  it  might  come  again. 

Galdus  again  united  himself  to  that  boy  whom  he  had  twice 
snatched  from  death ;  but  the  boy  was  changed.  No  longer 
did  the  halls  resound  with  his  merry  laugh.  He  had  known 
grief,  and  had  lived  years.  He  was  pensive  and  silent.  For- 
merly he  communicated  to  Galdus  all  his  feelings,  his  hopes, 
his  fears,  his  joys,  his  sorrows  ;  but  now  he  had  known  a  deeper 
experience,  and  those  feelings  which  he  had  had  became  too 
strong  for  utterance. 

Galdus  never  spoke  of  Hegio  to  Marcus.  He  knew  the 
boy's  nature,  and  his  abhorrence  of  strife  and  blood.  To  tell 
him  of  his  vengeance  would  fill  that  boy  with  horror.  Galdus 
felt  this  in  his  own  dull  way,  and  was  silent  about  it  with 
Marcus.  ' 

But  there  was  one  to  whom  he  had  an  opportunity  of  telling 
his  story,  and  that  was  Nero.  Cineas  was  often  reminded  of  it 
by  Cassar,  who  urged  him  to  bring  the  Briton  to  him.  At 
length  he  complied.  Nero  gazed  with  admiration  upon  the 
gigantic  frame  of  his  visitor,  and  read  in  his  stern,  resolute  face 
a  power  which  he  saw  in  few  around  him.  Galdus  was  not  all 
a  savage.  His  own  turn  cf  mind,  which  was  elevated,  had 
gained  new  development  from  long  association  with  Marcus, 
and  there  was  some  degree  of  intellectual  refinement  in  his  bold, 
barbaric  face,  which  inspired  respect  and  admiration. 

Called  on  to  give  an  account  of  his  doings  to  Nero,  Galdus 
told  the  whole  story.  His  narrative  had  not  that  elegance 
which  had  characterized  the  story  of  Cineas,  nor  was  it  so  skil- 
fully arranged,  or  so  well  brought  out  in  its  strong  points ;  but, 
after  all,  the  effect  was  at  least  equal. 

For  here  stood  the  man  himself,  and  he  acted  it  out.  As  he 
proceeded  in  his  relation,  his  excitement  grew  more  and  more 
intense.  He  lived  it  over  again.  All  the  feelings  that  had 
burned  within  him  on  that  memorable  night  lived  and  glowed 


CHANGES. 


3^1 


over  again.  His  wild  face  was  by  turns  animated  by  sorrow, 
hate,  vengeance,  or  triumph.  His  yellow  hair,  thick  beard, 
and  large  frame,  his  guttural  intonation  and  foreign  accent,  his 
wild  gesticulations,  all  made  him  most  impressive. 

Nero,  in  his  rapture,  took  from  his  own  neck  a  gold  chain, 
and  flung  it  around  that  of  Galdus. 

He  declared  that  this  story  had  given  him  a  new  inspiration. 
He  would  go  on  with  his  tragedy,  and  it  should  astonish  the 
world.  He  vowed,  also,  that  Galdus  should  act  out  the  whole 
scene  in  person.     Such  was  the  effect  of  this  on  Nero. 

After  a  while,  Labeo  went  to  Court,  from  no  particular  motive, 
but  partly  out  of  a  vague  sense  of  duty,  and  partly  from  the 
force  of  an  old  impulse  toward  promotion.  Very  faint  had  that 
desire  for  promotion  now  become.  The  terrible  lesson  which 
he  had  learned  had  weakened  ambition,  and  showed  him,  in  a 
way  which  he  could  nevei  rget,  the  utter  uncertainty  of  the 
most  flattering  hopes.  He  turned  his  thoughts  more  fondly 
than  ever  on  that  wife  and  son  whom  he  had  so  nearly  lost. 
He  began  to  think  of  happiness  with  them,  without  any  larger 
dignity  or  greater  power  than  he  had  now. 

But,  above  all,  his  position  in  the  Court  was  painful  to  him 
for  this  reason,  that  he  could  not  endure  even  the  sight  of  that 
man  by  whose  warrant  so  terrible  a  blow  had  been  dealt  on 
him ;  that  man  against  whom  he  had  once  armed  himself,  and 
whose  life  he  had  sworn  to  take.  Could  he  now  ask  favours 
from  this  man,  or,  even  if  they  were  offered,  could  he  accept 
them  1    He  felt  that  he  could  not. 

His  silence  and  reserve  were  not  noticed  by  Nero.  Labeo 
had  always  been  thus,  and  Nero  had  been  accustomed  to  look 
on  him  as  a  sort  of  lay  figure  in  his  Court,  an  ornament,  a  work 
of  art.  Nor  could  the  emperor  imagine  that  the  events  of  the 
arrest  were  viewed  in  any  other  light  by  Labeo  than  by  himself. 
The  heart  of  that  father  and  husband  lay  hidden  from  his  sight  j 
that  there  should  be  there  bitter  memories  and  deep  wounds, 


ffi 


328 


CHANGES. 


\ 


-fci 


was  something  which  was  simply  inconceivable  to  a  man  like 
him. 

After  come  months,  Labeo  found  that  this  life  was  unendur- 
able, and  he  began  to  loathe  it, — to  loathe  thv.-  miseraole  crew 
of  courtiers,  and  the  hateful  tyrant  who  presided.  He  deter- 
mined to  leave. 

Other  things  influenced  him  j  but,  above  all,  Marcus.  Month 
after  month  had  passed,  but  the  gloom  that  had  settled  down 
over  that  young  heart  had  been  in  no  way  dissipated.  His 
father  and  mother  looked  with  deep  concern  on  the  thin  face, 
which  seemed  to  grow  more  melancholy  in  its  expression  every 
day.  He  was  for  ever  brooding  over  his  own  thoughts,  and 
nursing  the  sombre  fancies  which  came  over  his  mind.  It  was 
a  state  of  mind  over  which  a  man  might  grow  mad,  and  over 
which  a  boy  or  a  child  mui .  die.  This  Labeo  saw.  He  watched 
with  anguish  the  lack-lustre  eye,  the  listless  motion,  and  the 
unelastic  step  of  that  son,  whose  bounding  life  had  a  short  time 
before  animated  all  the  house  and  filled  it  with  joyousness. 
Marcus  had  ceased  to  laugh  and  play.  His  father  felt  as  though 
he  had  ceased  to  be  himself.  He  felt  that  above  all  there  was 
needed  a  total  change  of  scene,  and  could  think  of  no  place  so 
good  as  Britain. 

To  go  back  there  was  to  give  up  all  his  hopes  of  immediate 
advancement;  but  Labeo  had  grown  to  care  little  for  this. 
Britain  would  afford  new  scenes.  They  had  been  there  before, 
and  loved  it.  Marcus  would  revive,  perhaps,  in  that  bracing 
air  from  the  Northern  Sea,  and  resume  his  former  nature. 

Labeo  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  the  command  of  a  legion. 
Nero  was  quite  indifferent  whether  he  went  or  stayed ;  and  so 
all  was  soon  arranged  for  their  departure  to  a  place  where  there 
would  be  no  gloomy  memories  for  ever  suggested  to  them,  and 
no  perr  ?tual  fear  of  new  dangers. 

Sulpicia  was  left  behind  with  Isaac  as  steward.  Lydia  re- 
mained also,  and  Cineas,  who  had  resolved  to  linger  in  Rome 


CHANGES. 


329 


igion. 
nd  so 
there 
I,  and 


some  time  longer.     Labeo  took  with  him  his  wife  and  boy,  and 
Galdus. 

Time  passed  on,  and  Tigellinus  had  endeavouied  to  divert 
Nero  from  his  revived  literary  tastes.  It  was  the  nature  of  this 
man  to  endure  no  rivalry  of  any  kind.  He  wished  above  all  to 
withdraw  the  emperor  from  association  with  Cineas,  for  as  long 
as  this  lasted  he  felt  that  his  power  was  only  half  secured. 
To  effect  this  he  drew  the  emperor  away  from  Rome  more 
frequently  than  before,  and  for  longer  periods.  The  Golden 
House  was  in  process  of  erection,  and  till  it  was  finished  Nero 
had  no  place  worthy  of  his  grandeur.  Other  places  afforded 
greater  variety,  and  at  Baiae,  or  at  Naples,  Nero  could  find  more 
novelty  and  equal  luxury.  Cineas  felt  infinitely  relieved  by 
this  new  estrangement  of  Nero.  Association  with  the  emperor 
was  hateful.  Now  that  his  loved  friends  were  safe,  he  had  no 
longer  any  object  at  Court,  and  desired  nothing  so  much  as  to 
withdraw  quietly.  His  desire  was  gratified,  and  in  the  best 
way,  for  the  Court  was  withdrawn  from  him,  and  Nero,  with  his 
usual  fickleness,  soon  thought  no  more  of  his  "philosopher."  His 
tragedy  remained  an  unfinished  conception,  and  the  creatures 
of  fancy  were  supplanted  by  the  horrors  of  fact. 

Tigellinus  worked  on  all  the  evil  passions  of  his  master,  and 
on  none  more  successfully  than  on  his  cruelty.  Many  of  the 
best  men  in  Rome  fell  beneath  his  machinations.  Cineas  had 
vanished  from  the  scene,  and  Tigellinus  thought  no  more  about 
him,  but  transferred  all  his  envy  to  Petronius.  This  gay,  care- 
less, and  light-hearted  man  still  Ciung  to  the  Court,  for  it  was 
his  best-loved  home,  and  neither  the  machinations  of  Tigellinus 
nor  the  increasing  cruelty  of  Nero  deterred  him. 

At  last  Petronius  fell.  Tigellinus  made  up  a  charge  against 
him  that  he  had  taken  part  in  the  great  conspiracy,  and  Nero 
believed,  or  at  least  thought  fit  to  pretend  so.  Nero  happened 
at  the  time  to  be  on  one  of  his  excursions  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Naples  Bay.     Petronius  was  following  him,  but  was  arrested 


Sr\ 


f 


1 

m     ^'^ 

■|k 

330 


CHANGES. 


at  Cumae.  He  saw  that  he  was  doomed,  and  met  death  with 
that  gaiety  and  calm  contempt  with  which  he  had  viewed  the 
world  all  his  life.  He  died  in  a  characteristic  manner.  He 
would  not  live  in  suspense,  and  so  scornfully  prepared  to  quit 
the  world,  yet  did  not  wish  to  seem  in  a  hurry  about  it.  He 
opened  his  veins,  and  closed  them  again  at  intervals,  losing  a 
small  quantity  of  blood  each  time,  and  gradually  ^rowing  feebler. 
But  during  the  whole  time  he  was  surrounded  by  friends,  with 
whom  he  chatted  and  jested  in  his  usual  careless  manner.  He 
would  not  talk  on  grave  philosophical  subjects,  such  as  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  or  in  contempt  of  death,  but  chose 
rather  to  listen  to  music  and  song,  love-strains,  and  gay 
melodies.  He  gave  presents  to  all,  walked  about  in-doors 
and  out,  lay  down  to  sleep  for  a  time,  and  thus  gaily  and 
calmly  dallied  and  trifled  with  death.  To  his  scorn  of  death, 
he  added  equal  scorn  of  his  destroyers,  Tigellinus  and  Nero, 
and  spent  his  last  hours  in  writing  an  account  of  Nero's  de- 
bauchery, which  he  sent  to  the  emperor  sealed  with  his  own  seal. 

Meanwhile  the  persecutions  of  the  Christians  had  greatly 
slackened.  Many  returned  to  their  homes,  and  contented 
themselves  with  eluding  observation  as  much  as  possible.  The 
emperor  had  greater  and  more  important  victims,  and  cared  no 
more  for  these.  Yet  his  edict  against  them  was  still  in  force; 
the  lesser  officials  were  still  on  the  look-out,  and  although  the 
humbler  Christians  might  pass  unnoticed,  yet  there  were  some 
who  had  been  mentioned  by  name,  and  whose  arrest  was  still 
sought  after  as  a  matter  of  importance.  Prominent  among 
these  was  Julius. 

During  all  this  time  old  Carbo  had  been  a  changed  man. 
From  the  first  he  mourned  over  his  son,  and  inwr  "dly  lepented 
of  his  own  harshness.  He  secretly  admired  the  constancy  and 
heroism  of  his  son,  of  whose  situation  and  bold  performances 
he  kept  himself  always  well  informed.  He  longed  to  find  some 
way  of  regaining  him  and  becoming  reconciled,  but  did  not 


CHANGES. 


33> 


ith  with 
wed  the 
er.  He 
to  quit 
it.  He 
losing  a 
:  feebler, 
ids,  with 
er.  He 
,  as  the 
It  chose 
ind  gay 
in-doors 
lily  and 
if  death, 
id  Nero, 
ero's  de- 
)wn  seal. 

greatly 
jntented 
The 
ared  no 
in  force  J 
jugh  the 
re  some 
was  still 

among 

ed  man. 
epented 
ncy  and 
rmances 
nd  some 
did  not 


know  how.  His  Roman  pride  prevented  him  from  making  the 
first  advances,  and  Julius  could  not  come  to  him.  Thus  he 
struggled  with  his  grief  for  a  long  time,  until  at  last  he  could 
bear  it  no  longer. 

One  day  he  visited  Cineas,  and  talked  in  his  usual  strain 
about  the  evils  of  the  time.  He  inveighed  bitterly  against 
Nero,  and  enumerated  all  his  crimes.  Finally,  he  spoke  of  the 
per  ccution  of  the  Christians  as  the  most  abominable  -  U  his 
acts,  and  declared  that  the  virtue  of  the  Christian  ,  as  f'dly 
proved  to  his  mind  by  the  fact  that  they  were  singled  out  by 
Nero  for  his  vengeance.  Had  they  been  what  he  once  sup- 
posed, they  would  never  thus  have  suffered. 

Cineas  listened  to  all  this  in  surprise  and  in  joy.  He  thought 
that  he  might  perhaps  be  able  to  bring  together  the  father  and 
the  son;  he  was  rejoiced  to  think  that  there  was  such  happi- 
ness in  store  for  his  friend,  and  was  wondering  how  he  could 
best  bring  about  a  meeting,  when  old  Carbo,  who  had  been 
silent  for  some  time,  suddenly  came  over  to  where  Cineas  was, 
and,  in  a  voice  which  was  scarce  audible,  and  broken  by  emo- 
tion, exclaimed, — 

"  Cineas,  you  know  where  he  is.     Take  me  to  him." 

That  settled  all  the  difficulty.  Right  gladly  Cineas  con- 
sented. They  set  off  immediately  to  that  place  where  Julius 
had  been  so  long,  and  soon  reached  it.  Carbo  shuddered  as 
he  descended,  and  walked  through  the  gloomy  labyrinth,  and 
thought  that  this  was  the  place  to  which  his  son  had  been 
banished.  And  for  what  1  For  integrity,  for  true  religion,  and 
for  virtue. 

At  last  the  father  found  the  son.  Leaving  Carbo  behind, 
Cineas  brought  Julius  to  him.  Julius  came,  pale  and  hag- 
gard as  he  now  had  grown,  bearing  about  him  the  marks  of  a 
wretched  life,  with  his  pallid  countenance  rendered  more  so  by 
the  dim  torch-light.  Carbo  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and 
then  caught  him  in  his  arms. 


f  'i 


r 


33« 


CHANGES. 


•■#!* 


Si 


I  t 


rrir 


"  Oh,  my  son  1 "  he  murmured,  and  burst  into  a  flood  of 
tears. 

"  Father,"  said  JuHus,  who  was  affected  to  an  equal  degree, 
"  I  knew  all  the  time  that  you  forgave  me." 

But  Carbo  now  began  cursing  himself  for  his  weakness,  and 
tried  to  check  his  tears;  but  then,  looking  again  at  his  son, 
fresh  tears  came  to  his  eyes,  till  at  last  he  sat  down  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  wept  bitterly. 

Now  that  the  old  man  had  found  his  son,  and  taken  him 
back  to  his  heart,  he  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  further 
separation.  He  was  anxious  for  Julius  to  leave  instantly,  and 
come  home.  He  offered  to  protect  him  against  all  danger;  and 
Julius  smiled  sadly  and  lovingly,  as  the  old  man  declared  that 
he  would  lay  down  his  life  for  his  son  if  any  one  tried  to 
arrest  him. 

"  I  know  you  would,  father,  as  I  would  for  you ;  but  I  have 
other  things  to  consider.  It  is  not  fear  of  myself  that  keeps  me 
here.  I  don't  have  any.  I  could  easily  elude  any  pursuers. 
But  there  are  some  here  who  cannot  do  so.  They  are  less 
active,  and  more  timid  than  I  am.  We  who  are  strong  have  to 
bear  the  burdens  of  the  weak.  That  is  our  religion.  Some  of 
these  poor,  timid  souls  would  not  dare  to  quit  this  place. 
While  there  is  a  single  dear  child  of  Christ  in  this  place,  i  must 
stay,  and  help,  and  comfort  him.  It  is  the  duty  of  some  to 
teach ;  it  is  my  duty  to  protect  the  fearful  and  the  weak.  And 
I  think  I  have  done  some  little  for  them." 

Carbo's  eyes  glistened  as  he  looked  on  his  son,  and  heard 
these  sentiments. 

**  Heaven  help  them,  boy,  if  they  lose  you  !  I  understand 
you.  I  must  yield.  It  is  hard.  But  I  can  say  nothing.  If  I 
were  a  young  man  I  would  turn  Christian,  and  come  here  and 
help  you.  You  are  living  gloriously,  my  noble  boy.  But  will 
I  never  see  you  ?  Must  I  go  back  and  live  without  you  %  Will 
you  let  your  old  father  die,  and  not  come  near  him  % " 


CHANGES. 


333 


"  I  will  come  and  see  you  whenever  I  can,"  said  Julius. 
"  I  will  spend  days  with  yon.  Soon,  perhaps,  I  will  be  able  to 
stay  at  home.  Be  patient,  dear  father.  Think  of  what  I  have 
to  do.  We  will  meet  often  now.  Thank  God  that  this  mis- 
understanding is  over." 

Julius  kept  his  word.  His  visits  to  his  father  were  frequent, 
and  sometimes  protracted.  He  never  encountered  any  danger. 
The  new  life,  and  the  partial  deliverance  from  the  gloom  and 
damp  of  the  vaults,  had  a  marked  effect.  His  pallor  changed 
into  a  fresher  hue,  and  his  spirit  became  brighter. 

But  there  was  one  thing  which  exercised  a  more  powerful 
effect  for  good  than  even  the  bright  air  and  sunshine  and  recon- 
ciliation with  his  father. 

There  was  one  who  always  looked  out  for  his  visits,  and 
counted  the  days  of  his  absence,  and  heard  the  sound  of  his 
voice  with  a  beating  heart — one  whose  whole  being,  from 
which  all  other  ties  had  been  torn,  now  turned  fondly  to  him, 
and  found  in  him  the  great  consolation  of  life.  This  was 
Lydia. 

The  visits  of  Julius  grew  more  and  more  protracted  in  length. 
Much  of  his  time  was  passed  at  Labeo's  villa.  His  father  fol- 
lowed him  there.  When  Julius  was  away  the  old  man  would 
come  there,  knowing  that  the  place  was  dear  to  his  boy, 
and  longing  to  speak  to  some  one  about  him.  Sometimes 
Cineas  was  the  one  whom  he  selected;  but  he  soon  found 
another  hearer  who  was  never  tired  of  heating  him  speak  on  his 
one  theme,  who  was  willing  to  listen  for  hours,  anc  prompt  him, 
and  incite  him  with  questions.  Carbo  found  a  charm  in  this 
listener  that  he  knew  nowhere  else.  And  so  at  last  he  came  to 
Labeo's  house  every  day,  to  talk  of  his  one  theme  to  Lydia. 

He  ceased  railing  at  Rome,  and  his  former  bitterness  and 
cynicism  had  departed,  and  given  way  to  a  milder  temper  and 
a  gentler  mood.  The  stern  face  with  its  military  air,  and  the 
mild  voice  with  which  he  always  addressed  himself  to  Lydia. 


"SSr 


.•,*l 


334 


CHANGES. 


sometimes  reminded  her  of  her  own  father,  and  made  her  love 
the  father  of  Julius. 

Time  passed  on,  and  Julius  began  to  recover  his  former 
robust  and  energetic  health.  Life  had  become  sweet.  The 
catacombs  were  only  used  at  times  in  sudden  fear.  The  most 
timid  had  ventured  forth,  and  had  resumed  their  former  lives. 
At  last  Julius  was  able  to  remain  altogether  at  his  father's  house. 

Now  Julius  and  Lydia  were  near  one  another.  Bound 
together  by  common  remembrance  of  suffering  endured  in 
common,  it  seemed  at  last  as  though  their  sorrows  were  over 
for  a  time. 

All  the  nature  of  Julius  had  been  pervaded  by  the  influence 
of  that  fair  young  girl.  He  had  seen  her  in  her  humble  garret, 
where  she  used  to  live  with  her  father;  he  had  watched  her  in 
the  gloomy  catacombs,  where  she  had  closed  her  father's  eyes. 
He  had  saved  her  hie  over  and  over. 

Out  in  the  free  air  once  more,  he  could  not  endure  the 
thought  of  only  the  slight  separation  that  now  kept  them  apart. 
Life  was  dull  and  unmeaning  till  she  was  with  him  to  share  all. 
He  could  not  wait  even  till  his  safety  was  secured. 

If  I  wait  till  then,  I  must  wait  till  I  die.  She  shall  take  me  as 
I  am,  in  danger,  and  with  death  before  me,  and  we  will  share  the 
same  fate,  whatever  it  is.  As  long  as  I  am  a  Christian  this  lot 
will  be  mine.     And  what  is  more,  she  is  in  the  same  danger. 

So  Lydia  was  taken  from  her  life  of  dependence  and  loneli- 
ness. Carbo's  house,  though  humble  in  comparison  with 
others,  seemed  like  a  palace  to  Lydia.  Her  presence  made  it 
brighter  and  more  radiant  in  the  eyes  of  Julius.  The  old  man 
had  need  no  longer  to  travel  to  Labeo's  house  to  find  one  to 
whom  he  could  talk  about  his  boy.  The  wife  of  Julius  loved 
that  theme  better  than  any  other,  and  so  happily  did  the  days 
of  Carbo  pass,  that  he  seemed  to  have  renewed  his  youth,  and 
at  last  did  not  know  which  he  loved  best,  his  son,  or  his  new 
daughter. 


XXX. 

Cfet  Cbicf  Ititrtar. 

|HEN  the  Christians  of  Rome  were  thus  beginning  to 
breathe  freely  again,  and  to  return  to  their  former 
avocations  with  some  degree  of  security,  the  little 
community  was  filled  with  joy  by  an  event  which 
was  to  them  of  the  greatest  importance. 

This  was  no  less  a  thing  than  the  arrival  of  the  great  apostle 
among  them. 

With  him  came  Philo,  who  had  accompanied  him  every- 
where in  his  wanderings,  and  who  now  seemed  paler,  weaker, 
but,  in  spite  of  all  that,  more  ardent  and  energetic  than  ever. 

Many  were  the  stories  which  these  poor  afflicted  ones  in 
Rome  had  to  tell  of  their  persecutions  and  sufferings.  In  the 
relief  which  they  now  had  from  the  weight  of  oppression,  they 
were  yet  conscious  of  danger.  That  danger  they  all  saw  was 
most  likely  to  fall  on  the  very  eminent  ones,  and  of  them  all 
the  most  eminent  by  far  was  Paul. 

For  him  they  feared.  They  entreated  him  to  save  himself 
from  danger  by  quietness  and  obscurity.  But  Paul's  nature  did 
not  allow  him  to  do  this.  He  had  passed  his  life  in  encoun- 
tering perils,  and  as  he  fully  expected  to  die  at  some  time  or 
other  for  his  religion,  he  was  as  ready  to  lay  down  his  life  in 
Rome  as  in  any  other  place. 

He  therefore  continued  his  labours  with  the  utmost  publicity, 
and  in  all  respects  acted  just  as  if  the  Christians  were  tolerated 


i 


i:-rki 


Itii 


;) 


It      < 


336 


THE  CHIEF  MARTYR. 


by  the  government.  Under  these  circumstances  he  soon  at- 
tracted attention  ;  and  as  there  were  many  officials  here,  as 
there  always  are  everywhere,  who  desire  to  earn  distinction  by 
a  show  of  zeal,  his  labours  were  at  last  terminated  by  his 
arrest. 

After  his  trial  he  was  imprisoned  in  the  dungeons  of  the 
Mamertine  Prison,  at  the  foot  of  the  Capitoline  Hill. 

Here  he  prepared  for  his  death.  Philo,  who  was  his  constant 
attendant,  had  been  arrested  at  the  same  time,  placed  in  the 
same  prison,  and  doomed  ro  the  same  fate. 

Enough  time  elapsed  beivveen  his  arrest  and  his  execution  to 
enable  Paul  to  receive  the  visits  of  some  friends,  and  administer 
comfort  to  them ;  and  to  write  to  other  friends  at  a  distance 
words  cf  divine  consolation. 

Among  those  who  came  to  see  the  prisoner  was  Cineas. 

He  had  seen  him  before,  when  engaged  in  the  labour  of  his 
life. 

He  now  looked  with  admiration  upon  this  man  in  his  prison, 
who  stood  before  him  in  his  chains,  calm,  self-possessed,  and 
joyous,  with  an  exhilaration  of  manner  that  filled  him  with 
astonishment. 

The  apostle  expressed  himself  not  only  perfectly  willing  to 
suffer  imprisonment,  but  really  desirous  to  die.  He  said  that 
he  was  ready  to  depart,  and  that  departure  from  ^arth  meant 
arrival  at  heaven.  Thus  far  he  had  fought  the  battle  of  Christ, 
and  now  his  warfare  was  over.  He  would  now  gain  the  reward 
of  his  toils.  Immortal  blessedness  lay  before  him ;  glory  such 
as  no  mind  could  conceive ;  bliss  unspeakable  and  eternal. 
His  fight  was  fought ;  his  race  was  run  ;  he  had  been  faithful, 
and  heaven  was  secure. 

Cineas  looked  upon  the  attitude  of  Paul  in  the  face  of  death 
with  the  profoundest  admiration.  He  thought  that  the  death 
of  Socrates,  which  he  had  always  so  loved  to  contemplate, 
would  be  repeated  in  the  man  before  him,  and  even  owned  to 


THE  CHIEF  MARTYR. 


337 


death 
death 
nplate, 
ned  to 


himself  that  there  were  things  in  which  the  apostle  surpassed 
the  philosopher. 

Paul  did  not  remain  long  in  prison.  ^       ■  ; 

A  few  days  afterwards  the  end  came. 

He  was  spared  the  keener  agonies  of  death  by  fire.  The 
Roman  public  had  long  since  become  satiated  with  horrors,  and 
the  spectacle  of  a  man  burning  at  the  stake  now  excited  dif- 
ferent feelings  from  what  it  once  did. 

And  now,  when  Paul's  turn  came,  it  was  considered  that  the 
laws  would  be  satisfied  if  he  suffered  capital  punishment  like 
any  other  person.  Fire  was  an  extraordinary  application  \  it 
was  not  required  here. 

The  common  execution  by  beheading  was  allotted  to  him. 

His  lofty  spirit  was  sustained  to  the  last  by  a  high,  unfaltering 
faith — faith  that  was  more  than  faith,  since  it  had  become  in- 
tensified to  knowledge  and  conviction. 

He  knew  that  heaven  awaited  him.  He  saw  the  crown  of 
glory  that  was  laid  up  for  him  on  high. 

The  sunshine  of  that  heaven  seemed  to  eradiate  his  face ;  and 
those  who  looked  on  him  thought  that  they  saw  the  face  of  an 
angel. 

As  that  noble  head  fell  beneath  the  axe,  there  was  one  who 
looked  on,  viewing  everything,  who  saw  in  this  the  grandest 
triumph  of  Christianity. 

"  Farewell,  O  Paul ! "  he  murmured.  "  Noble  soul — Chris- 
tian— more  than  philosopher !  Go  up  to  heaven  to  thy  kindred ! 
Thou  art  sublime.    Thou  hast  surpassed  Socrates." 

With  Paul,  another  suffered. 

His  friend,  his  constant  companion,  his  faithful  and  zealous 
associate. 

At  last  Philo  found  the  end  of  his  sorrows  and  his  tears,  and 
this  was  his  happiness,  that  he  could  lay  down  his  life  for 
Christ,  and  die  by  the  side  of  Paul.  * 

There  were  loving  hands  which  took  up  the  remains  and  bore 

U8S)  22 


\ 


338 


THE  CHIEF  MARTYR. 


them  to  that  place  already  consecrated  by  the  Christian  dead, 
and  by  the  presence  of  those  who  had  once  lived  there  in  per- 
secution, of  whom  the  world  was  not  worthy — to  that  place 
which  later  ages  should  fill  with  Christian  monuments,  and 
time  still  succeeding  should  hallow  with  the  holy  remembrances 
of  martyrs. 

There  they  buried  Paul. 

There,  too,  they  buried  Philo,  in  the  same  grave  in  which 
his  mother  lay ;  and  over  his  mother's  inscription  they  carved  a 
dove  bearing  an  olive-branch — the  emblem  of  the  Peace  that 
he  had  gained — and  the  simple  words, — 


'Thb  Bisomum  of  Philo  and  Clymbnb." 


1} 


XXXI. 


JIABEO  had  found  a  home  in  Britain,  not  far  from 
London.     His  villa  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city, 
and  looked  toward  the  river.    London  had  been 
rebuilt,  and  showed  but  few  traces  of  the  devasta- 
tion to  which  it  had  been  subject. 

Here  he  thought,  in  this  quiet  and  peaceful  spot,  far  re- 
moved from  the  painful  remembrances  of  Rome,  that  Marcus 
might  forget  the  past,  and  that  the  weight  might  be  removed 
from  his  young  heart,  and  the  seeds  of  disease  be  destroyed. 
But  Marcus  showed  no  signs  of  improvement.  In  his  dreams 
he  still  suffered  the  horrors  of  the  catacombs,  and  lived  among 
the  tombs,  and  stood  beside  the  dead.  Not  easily  could  his 
sensitive  nature  shake  off  the  dread  impressions  of  that  place  of 
woe.  As  he  dreamed,  so  he  thought,  and  his  father  shuddered 
as  he  heard  him  always  talk,  when  he  did  talk,  about  death  and 
the  grave.  In  vain  the  resources  of  the  country  were  exhausted 
to  contrive  amusements  for  the  boy.  Amusements  had  lost 
their  charm.  He  was  too  indifferent  to  them  all.  His  parents 
saw  an  increasing  languor  and  dulness,  which  heightened  their 
alarm.  The  bracing  air  of  this  colder  clime  was  expected  to 
produce  a  beneficial  effect ;  but  no  benefit  was  received. 

Helena's  whole  being  was  bound  up  in  her  child,  and  his 
failmg  health  kept  her  in  a  constant  state  of  alarm  and  anxiety. 
Sensitive  and  nervous,  she  had  never  been  strong,  and  the 
dread  experience  through  which  she  had  passed,  when  she  had 


'f 


^    f 


ii-  'i  :':■■'  'ill 


\ 


340 


BEREAVEMENTS. 


iS'S 


tasted  of  the  bitterness  of  death,  had  left  deep  and  abiding 
traces.  Many  gray  hairs  appeared  already  on  that  brow  which 
was  yet  young,  and  lines  were  marked  on  her  fair  face,  and  the 
signs  of  grief  remained.  Perhaps,  if  Marcus  had  recovered  his 
old  spirit,  and  life  had  been  joyous — if  she  had  gone  back  to 
perfect  peace  and  liberty,  unalloyed  by  anxiety — then  she 
might  have  recovered  from  the  terrors  of  that  eventful  night. 
But  new  griefs  succeeded  to  old  ones,  and  the  thin  pale  face  of 
Marcus,  which  haunted  her  night  and  day,  was  worse  than  the 
catacombs. 

As  the  boy  failed,  the  mother  knew  that  she,  too,  was  failing. 
She  told  no  ore.  She  feared  to  add  to  her  husband's  grief  by 
telling  him.  She  hid  the  secret  in  her  heart,  and  that  heart 
ached  for  him  who  was  to  be  so  bereaved.  She  knew  that  her 
life  and  that  of  Marcus  would  have  the  same  course. 

Often  this  thought  came  vividly  before  her  as  she  looked  at 
Marcus,  and  then  she  would  clasp  him  passionately  to  her 
heart,  and  exclaim  :  "  O  sweet  boy ! "  but  she  said  no  more,  for 
she  dared  not  utter  the  thought  that  was  in  her  mind. 

But  as  his  face  grew  thinner,  and  his  form  more  slight,  and 
his  eyes  more  lustrous,  so  did  hers,  as  though  there  were  some 
subtle  sympathy  between  these  two  which  bound  each  to  a 
common  fate. 

To  all  this  Labeo  was  not  blind.  He  could  see  it  all  as  he 
looked  mournfully  upon  the  change  which  time  made  in  each, 
and  marked  how  both  decHned  together.  He  saw  it  all.  He 
knew  what  Helena's  secret  was,  which  she  in  her  love  would 
conceal. 

At  first  he  struggled  against  it,  and  tried  hard  to  disbelieve  it, 
to  reason  away  his  fears.  In  vain.  Tlie  mother  and  son  were 
there  before  him  to  show  him  what  was  coming.  He  tried  to 
hope,  but  hope  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  till  at  last  all  hope  died 
out,  and  he  was  forced  to  struggle  with  the  terror  that  lay  full 
before  him. 


id- 


BEREA  VEMENTS. 


34» 


For  Marcus  at  last  grew  so  weak  that  he  could  walk  about 
no  longer. 

Then  Labeo  carried  him  about  in  the  open  air ;  tenderly, 
lovingly,  while  his  heart  was  breaking,  and  in  his  tones,  which 
were  always  tender  and  loving,  there  came  a  new  tenderness,  a 
passion  of  love,  and  a  deep  yearning  over  this  idol  of  his  heart. 
The  strong  man  carried  the  pale,  dying  boy  about  the  garden 
all  the  day  long,  or  sat  holding  him  in  his  arms,  gazing  upon 
him  with  speechless  love.  He  was  avaricious  about  his  boy  \ 
he  wished  to  lose  not  a  single  word  or  a  single  look.  He  trea- 
sured them  all  up  within  his  memory. 

Thus,  while  the  father  carried  his  boy  about  the  garden, 
Helena  used  to  look  at  them  from  a  distance,  and  think  such 
thoughts  as  she  would  not  wish  to  tell. 

And  Labeo  used  to  look  away  from  the  wasted  form  of  his 
son  to  the  slender  figure  of  that  other  dear  one,  and  mark  her 
wan  face  and  hollow  cheeks,  and  wonder  whether  he  could 
bear  all  that  was  impending. 

For  he  knew  it — he  knew  it.  Before  him  he  saw  a  black 
cloud  without  one  ray  of  light.  Bereavement,  twofold, 
unendurable,  not  to  be  thought  of — anguish  that  breaks 
the  heart,  and  sorrow  without  a  name.  And  the  gloom  of 
that  future  darkened  all  his  life,  so  that  each  succeeding  day 
brought  a  worse  fear,  and  drew  him  nearer  and  nearer  to 
despair. 

But  as  Marcus  grew  weaker  in  body,  his  soul  grew  stronger. 
His  spirit  rose,  and  he  tried  to  comfort  his  mother  and  console 
her  :  but  most  of  all  his  thoughts  and  his  heart  turned  to  his 
father. 

His  whole  nature  had  been  affectionate.  The  chief  motive 
of  his  nature  was  love,  and  now,  when  the  world  passed  away 
and  life  lost  its  glow,  his  love  arose  over  all  and  centred  itself 
in  his  father. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  pride  which  he  had  always  felt  for  that 


342 


BEREA  VEMENTS. 


\\ 


father ;  for  Labeo  had  always  been  to  Marcus  his  highest  ideal 
of  manhood — such  a  one  as  he  could  most  admire  and  revere 
— such  a  one  as  he  himself  had  once  hoped  to  be. 

Perhaps  he  thought  that  his  mother  needed  it  not  so  much ; 
perhaps  he  saw  that  the  grief  would  be  less,  since  it  would  be 
endured  for  a  shorter  time.  She  would  be  delivered  from  her 
sorrow,  while  he  must  linger  on  in  his  misery  without  a  comfort 
or  a  support 

It  was  this  that  made  him  return  with  equal  fondness  all  the 
affection  that  his  father  lavished  on  him,  and  while  he  looked 
on  the  face  of  his  son,  the  son  would  turn  to  the  father  a  fixed 
gaze  of  love ;  he  would  seek  for  caresses,  and  make  his  father 
hold  his  hand ;  by  all  these  acts  expressing  what  words  were 
weak  to  tell. 

Whether  by  night  or  by  day  Labeo  could  not  leave  his  son. 
In  his  sleep  he  watched  over  him  as  though  by  his  presence  he 
sought  to  shield  him  from  the  approach  of  danger. 

Time  passed,  and  the  weakness  increased,  until  at  last  the 
father  could  no  longer  carry  the  boy  in  his  arms,  but  had  to 
watch  over  him  in  his  chamber,  and  then  all  the  life  of  Labeo 
was  passed  in  the  room  where  Marcus  lay. 

And  still,  as  the  body  wasted,  the  spirit  strengthened  :  there 
was  less  of  earth,  but  more  of  heaven.  The  words  that  he 
spoke  were  not  the  words  of  a  child.  He  talked  on  things  of 
which  Labeo  knew  nothing ;  but  the  words  vibrated  through  all 
his  being,  and  were  treasured  up  in  his  memory,  and  called  to 
mind  in  after-years. 

These  were  some  simple  words  that  were  most  frequently  on 
his  lips,  spoken  in  a  weak  but  earnest  voice,  and  with  a  glance 
of  deep  love  that  death  itself  could  not  shake. 

"  Father,  v/e  will  all  be  there  at  last." 

"  Father,  I  will  be  there  first." 

"  Father,  we  will  meet  again." 

Then  Labeo  looked  into  his  own  soul,  and  asked  himself, — 


! 


BEREA  VEMRNTS. 


343 


Did  he  know  this  as  his  son  knew  it  ]  Was  he  sure  of  it  \  That 
boy  was.     But  was  he  %    And  he  knew  that  he  was  not. 

Beside  the  father  was  the  mother,  with  the  same  anxiety, 
keeping  watch  in  her  feebleness  over  the  same  couch,  and 
only  desiring  life  for  this,  that  she  might  live  long  enough  to 
console  the  father  when  the  blow  should  first  fall — holding  the 
same  grief  but  not  the  same  despair ;  for  now,  at  the  slew  but 
sure  approach  of  the  end,  the  very  blackness  of  darkness 
gathered  around  Labeo,  and  his  soul  wa.  filled  with  desolation. 

Yet  every  hour  that  took  away  part  of  that  boy's  life  took 
away  an  equal  part  of  the  life  of  that  mother. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  Marcus  used  to  speak  his  artless  words 
about  heaven  and  God,  as  though  he  spoke  of  that  with  which 
every  one  was  familiar.  Yet  Labeo  knew  nothing  of  these 
things,  and  the  feelings  of  Marcus  were  a  mystery  to  him. 
The  One  so  loved  by  Helena  and  by  his  son  was  not  known  to 
himself,  and  not  believed  in.  In  the  time  of  his  prosperity  and 
happiness  he  had  turned  away,  and  now,  in  the  time  of  his  grief, 
he  stood  afar  of. 

"  Father,"  said  Marcus,  "  we  will  meet  again.  Will  we  not, 
father]    Say,  father." 

And  the  father,  in  his  anguish,  kissed  the  white  lips  of  his 
son,  but  could  find  no  answer,  till  Marcus  urged  him  so  that  he 
had  to  say  something. 

"Oh,  my  boy,  may  the  great  God  grant  it !" 

"  He  will — he  will — my  father." 

It  was  with  such  words  as  these  that  this  fair  young  spirit 
took  its  flight  to  a  purer  world,  and  a  holier  companionship, 
and  a  diviner  love,  leaving  behind  the  memory  of  his  dying 
words,  to  be  treasured  up  in  that  father's  broken  heart,  and 
retained  through  years,  till,  like  precious  seed,  they  should  bring 
forth  fruit  at  last. 

It  was  early  morning  when  Marcus  left  them.  They  had 
watched  him  all  night.     He  lay  silent,  breathing  fast,  held  in 


WM 


iv'iV  Jfi 


,    ..(--■ 


i<i 


>r^*l 


344 


BEREA  VEMENTS. 


the  arms  of  his  father,  his  head  supported  on  that  father's 
breast,  who,  all  unnerved,  trembled  like  a  child,  while  the  fierce 
throbbings  of  his  heart  bore  witness  to  his  agony. 

Dawn  came,  and  the  boy  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Father,"  said  he. 

"  O  my  son  ! "  groaned  Labeo,  in  a  voice  of  despair. 

"  Kiss  me,  father." 

And  these  were  his  last  words.  And  as  the  father  pressed 
his  lips  on  the  cold  brow,  that  loving  spirit,  with  all  its  tender 
grace  and  beauty,  gently  passed  away.  A  smile  irradiated  the 
marble  features  of  the  dead.  Labeo  closed  the  eyes  that 
looked  on  him  with  such  love  to  the  last,  and  gently  placed  on 
the  couch  that  form  in  which  he  saw  the  ruin  of  all  hope  and 
all  affection  and  all  happiness. 

Then  all  his  grief,  resisted  and  struggled  against  for  months, 
rushed  upon  him  and  overmastered  him.  He  staggered  back 
and  fell  to  the  floor. 

Loving  hearts  cared  for  him.  He  re-i'ved  and  came  back  to 
his  living  grief,  but  only  to  find  another  sorrow. 

Cineas  had  come  from  Rome  when  he  first  heard  that  the 
sickness  of  Marcus  was  alarming,  and  was  now  in  this  mourn- 
ing household.  He  saw  a  grief  beyond  his  powers  to  console. 
^Vhat  had  he  to  say  1  Nothing.  Helena  had  more  to  say.  It 
was  she  who  spoke,  as  she  hung  over  Labeo,  who,  though 
roused  to  sense,  was  yet  bewildered  and  crushed  by  his  great 
sorrow.  Labeo  sat  as  one  who  heard  nothing.  He  looked  at 
vacancy.  The  only  sound  that  he  heard  was  the  last  words  of 
that  one  who  now  lay  there,  lost  to  his  heart  for  ever. 

So  he  thought,  and  if  that  one  thought  took  form,  it  was  this, 
— that  his  love,  his  idol,  his  darling  was  gone,  gone  for  ever 
and  for  ever;  and  what  was  life?  Could  he  live  after  this] 
Dare  he  live,  and  meet  what  was  before  him  1  He  thought  ot 
the  dagger  of  that  old  Sulpicius,  which  once  before  he  had 
seized  when  that  same  son  was  borne  away. 


BEREA  VEMENTS. 


345 


Sweet  and  low,  amid  that  madness  and  that  despair,  came 
the  sound  of  Helena's  voice.  ^.y» 

"  He  said  we  would  all  meet  again.  And  we  may  all  have 
that  meeting.  Where  he  has  gone  there  we  may  all  go,  if  wc 
will. 

*'  He  is  not  dead.  He  lives.  He  has  left  his  form  behind, 
as  we  might  leave  our  garments,  but  he  himself  now  stands 
among  the  redeemed. 

"  This  is  the  glory  of  the  religion  of  Christ,  that  little  children 
can  know  him,  and  feel  his  love  in  life  and  in  death.  He  invited 
them  to  him.  He  said  that  heaven  was  made  up  of  such.  Of 
such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  And  who  is  fit  for  heaven,  if 
Marcus  is  not  1 

"  He  is  in  light  and  life  eternal,  while  we  are  in  darkness  and 
death.  He  looks  down  upon  our  grief  from  heaven.  We  may 
all  meet  him  there  if  we  will." 

But  Labeo  heard  nothing.  All  this  seemed  mere  useless 
words.  Cineas  heard,  and  recalled  the  words  of  Paul  in  the 
catacombs,  over  the  burial  of  Clymene.  His  philosophy  had 
nothing  for  consolation  in  sorrow,  but  here  was  something  that 
well  might  bring  comfort  and  peace.  Did  it  not  ?  There  sat 
the  bereaved  mother;  but  though  natural  grief  was  strong,  the 
faith  of  the  soul  triumphed  over  nature.  She  looked  away 
from  the  inanimate  corpse,  and  saw  her  true  son  in  heaven,  in 
glory. 

But  Helena  herself  had  no  need  to  mourn.  Her  separation 
from  her  boy  was  not  to  be  long,  and  she  knew  it.  She  knew 
it  as  she  stood  looking  at  the  loved  remains  when  they  placed 
them  in  the  tomb,  when  the  faint  beatings  of  her  heart  gave 
solemn  warning  to  her  of  the  coming  hour;  and  she  thought 
that  in  a  little  time  she,  too,  would  lie  there,  and  mourners 
would  tenderly  and  tearfully  deposit  her  ashes  in  their  last 
resting-place. 

She  moved  about  feebly,  yet  still  struggled  to  keep  up  as  long 


■\' 


■  ^•l^ 


Mm 


xi 


II       ! 


1 


34<i 


BE  HE  A  VEMENTS. 


as  possiblo.  But  after  the  burial  of  Marcus  she  rose  no  more. 
After  that,  she  too  sank  upon  the  bed  of  sickness,  and  husband 
and  brother  had  to  undergo  another  bereavement. 

Worn  out  in  body  and  in  mind,  by  calamities,  by  grief,  and 
by  long  attendance  on  Marcus,  in  which  she  nerved  herself  to 
the  worst  for  a  time,  but  only  to  feel  a  worse  reaction,  there 
was  no  hope  for  her  now.  It  vas  impossible  to  save  her.  She 
must  die. 

Labeo  said  nothing.  He  had  foreseen  it ;  he  had  known  it 
when  his  boy  died.  He  had  then  known  despair,  and  had 
suffered  the  extreme  of  anguish.  He  could  feel  no  more. 
There  lay  before  him  the  partner  of  his  life,  loved  tenderly 
and  faithfully,  and  he  knew  tiiat  she  too  was  about  to  leave 
him.  Ther.^  were  times  when  he  yielded  to  his  tenderness  or 
to  his  grief,  but  for  the  most  part  he  sat  there  rigid,  stony, 
defying  Heaven. 

But  for  Cineas  the  sight  of  Helena  thus  passing  away  was 
terrible.  His  mother  had  died  in  his  childhood.  His  father's 
death  was  the  only  thing  in  all  his  life  that  had  ever  troubled 
him.  That  death  occurred  when  he  was  at  an  age  when  the 
feelings  are  keen,  but  sorrow,  if  deep,  is  short-lived.  Here, 
then,  came  a  sorrow  over  his  soul,  and  he  felt  that  it  would  be 
carried  to  his  grave. 

For  in  childhood,  and  boyhood,  and  early  manhood,  Helena 
and  he  had  been  inseparable,  uniting  in  all  tastes  and  all 
enjoyments  with  that  strange  spiritual  sympathy  which  drew 
both  together,  and  made  one  the  counterpart  of  the  other. 
He  loved  Helena  as  he  never  loved  any  other  human  being. 
All  the  sweetest  associations  of  life  were  blended  with  her. 
No  love  could  be  stronger  than  this,  or  more  enduring. 

Helena  knew  the  agony  that  lay  before  that  brother's  heart, 
how  he  would  miss  her^  and  no  more  find  one  who  understood 
himself  and  his  aspirations ;  how  in  his  clinging  affection  he 
would  cherish  her  memory,  and  make  the  companion  of  his 


BEREA  VEMENTS. 


347 


childhood  the  brightest  memory  of  his  later  years.  But  to  him 
it  would  be  nothing  but  a  memory.  .  . 

Now,  on  that  bed  from  which  she  expected  to  rise  no  more, 
her  soul  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  other  vorld,  and  seemed 
to  see  some'hing  of  its  majesty.  She  spoke  now  as  though  she 
saw  what  was  before  her.  On  Labeo's  ears  her  words  fell 
unheeded ;  but  Cineas  heard  all,  and  understood  all,  and 
his  whole  nature  thrilled  at  some  of  those  words  which  she 
spake. 

All  referred  to  Christ. 

"  He  is  truth.     Seek  him,  and  you  will  find  peace. 

"  He  is  the  only  one  worth  seeking  after.  Find  him,  and 
you  gain  immortality.  He  gives  eternal  life  with  himself  in 
heaven. 

"  Oh,  Cineas,  you  have  learned  all  that  philosophy  can  ever 
tell  you,  but  there  is  something  which  you  do  not  know,  and 
you  feel  the  need  of  it.  You  crave  it,  you  seek  after  it  I 
have  found  it  all  in  the  religion  of  Christ. 

"  You  know  all  about  God  except  one  thing,  and  that  one 
thing  you  can  never  find  out  except  from  Christ.  It  is  the  one 
thing  that  he  teaches.  I  knew  all  else  before ;  I  only  learned 
from  him  the  one  thing, — it  is  that  God  loves  me.  For  I  know 
it,  I  know  it,  and  I  love  him  who  first  loved  me. 

"  He  takes  away  all  fear.  Can  I  fear  to  die  ]  He  before 
whom  I  must  appear  is  my  Saviour,  my  Redeemer.  He  loves 
me,  and  I  love  him.  I  shall  see  him,  and  shall  dwell  in  his 
presence  for  ever. 

"  Cineas,  philcuophy  can  give  courage,  in  the  face  of  death, 
to  a  philosopher,  and  make  him  die  calmly;  but  Christ  can 
take  away  all  fear  of  death  from  weak  women  and  from  little 
children.     It  is  his  love  that  does  this. 

"  And  now  my  soul  clings  to  him.  He  supports  me.  I  love 
him,  and  have  no  fear.  Oh,  that  you  had  this  love  !  you  would 
tlien  know  that  all  you  seek  for  is  found  in  him." 


tri 


348 


BEREA  VEMENTS. 


If 


j  I 


ill 


,...! 


Such  were  the  words  which  Helena  spoke  at  intervals,  not 
continuously,  with  frequent  pauses  from  weakness;  and  never 
had  Cineas  heard  words  that  so  affected  his  heart. 

He  thought  within  himself  that  her  pure  spirit  already  saw 
things  unutterable,  and  that  her  bright  intellect  understood  the 
dark  mystery  of  death. 

It  did  not  need  this  new  scene  to  show  him  that  death  had 
no  terror  to  the  follower  of  Christ.  He  had  already  learned 
this  from  many  who  had  died  calmly,  murmuring  with  their 
last  breath  the  name  of  their  Redeemer.  Nor  did  he  think 
much  of  mere  courage  or  calmness  of  themselves  in  the  face 
of  death.  For  himself,  he  felt  that  he  could  die  calmly. 
Seneca  had  died  nobly;  Betronius,  joyously.  But  this  he  saw, 
that  the  courage  and  the  joy  of  Helena  were  far  different  from 
anything  which  this  world  could  give.  They  were  more  than 
sublime; — they  were  divine. 

As  he  had  desired  before  to  be  a  Christian,  so  now  he  desired 
it  still  more.  There  were  difficulties  in  the  way,  the  cause  of 
which  he  knew  not  yet,  but  was  destined  to  find  out  one  day ; 
and  so,  as  Helena  spoke,  she  seemed  glorified  in  his  eyes,  and 
he  looked  and  listened  as  one  might  listen  to  an  angel,  and 
longed  to  be  able  to  share  that  exalted  sentiment,  and  speak 
in  that  heavenly  language. 

So  the  days  passed,  and  Helena  faded  away  speaking  less 
and  less,  in  her  last  thoughts  blending  together  her  husband 
and  her  brother. 

Then  delirium  came.  Her  mind  wandered  back  to  her 
happy  girlhood.  Again  she  rambled  with  Cineas  amid  the 
beautiful  scenes  of  her  home,  or  sat  and  talked  ;he  hours  away 
under  the  plane-trees.  Her  voice  murmured  the  words  of  old 
songs,  the  songs  of  childhood,  the  sweet,  the  never-forgotten; 
and  Cineas,  as  he  listened  to  that  wandering  fancy,  felt  all  his 
own  thoughts  go  back  to  that  bright  season,  and  a  longing, 
yearning  homesickness  grew  over  his  heart.     Oh,  to  break  the 


BEREA  YEMENI'S 


349 


barriers  of  time,  and  go  back  in  the  years  to  such  a  youth  amid 
such  happiness !  But  youth  had  gone,  and,  with  Helena, 
happiness  also  would  go.  Could  he  but  take  the  feeling  of 
Helena  into  his  heart,  and  look  up  to  heaven  as  she  loved  to 
look,  and  call  that  his  home,  as  she  loved  to  call  it.  Then  the 
past  might  yield  in  charm  to  the  future. 

Strange  it  was  that  in  her  delirium  she  did  not  know  her 
husband,  but  always  knew  Cineas.  It  gave  a  mournful  consola- 
tion to  his  mourning  heart  to  know  that  the  one  whom  he  had 
always  loved  best  of  all  on  earth,  could  thus  forget  all  others 
but  him.  Thus  the  memories  of  childhood  outlast  all  others, 
and  in  delirium,  while  the  present  fades,  the  past  lives. 

"  Take  me  away,  Cineas,  away.  I  want  to  go  home.  Why 
do  you  keep  me  here  1 " 

She  looked  with  a  strange  imploring  expression  as  she  said 
this.  It  was  her  Athenian  home,  the  home  of  her  childhood, 
to  which  she  wished  to  return.  She  did  not  know  where  she 
was,  and  did  not  recognize  this  room  or  this  house  as  heis. 

"  Will  you  not  go  home  soon,  Cineas,  and  take  me  with  you  ? 
I  am  frightened.  What  am  I  doing  here  in  this  strange  place  1 
Take  me  home.     I  want  to  go  home." 

Ah,  poor  weary  spirit,  thought  Cineas,  as  he  tried  to  soothe 
her.    You  will  indeed  go  home,  but  not  to  Athens. 

"  You  shall  go  home,  O  my  sister  I "  said  he. 

"  When  % "  she  asked,  nervously  and  eagerly. 

"  When  1  Soon,  too  soon,"  he  murmured,  as  the  hot  tears 
poured  from  his  eyes. 

Home  !  Oh,  yes !  Not  long  did  she  have  to  remain,  not 
long  to  breathe  forth  her  sighs,  and  implore  Cineas  to  take  her 
thence.  Her  home  was  awaiting  her,  and  she  gained  what  she 
wished,  for  she  was  taken  home;  but  it  was  to  a  diviner  home, 
and  a  fairer  clime,  and  a  more  radiant  company  than  all  those 
which  dwelt  in  her  memory — a  home  beyo  id  the  stars,  a  home 
eternal  in  the  heavens. 


ii     i.i, 


% 


\K.    m 


•    }■ 


':f 


XXXII. 


#ff  ta  f&«  Muxn, 


-U 


|HE  blow  that  had  fallen  upon  the  two  friends  over- 
whelmed  both.  Each  had  his  own  sorrows,  and 
neither  ventured  to  hint  to  the  other  a  single  word 
of  consolation. 

For  some  time  Labeo  seemed  to  be  bewildered  by  his  grief, 
and  lived  and  moved  about  in  a  state  of  stupor  almost.  Gra- 
dually the  stupor  lessened,  but  only  to  make  grief  more  keen. 
The  gloom  seemed  to  gather  more  darkly  around,  and  every 
ray  of  light  to  have  departed  for  ever. 

Gradually  the  two  friends  became  drawn  toward  each  other, 
and  though  at  first  each  had  shut  himself  up  in  solitude,  yet  the 
force  of  sympathy  brought  them  together.  They  said  little  or 
nothing.  They  walked  over  the  grounds,  or  rode  over  the 
country,  or  sat  in  the  hall,  commonly  in  silence,  saying  nothing 
but  the  fewest  and  most  customary  words,  and  yet  with  all  this 
taciturnity  each  looked  out  for  the  society  of  the  other,  and  felt 
restless  without  it. 

All  else  had  gone ;  friendship  was  left — the  strong  friendship 
of  two  noble  natures,  begun  in  boyhood,  cemented  and  strength- 
ened through  years.  Each  knew  the  other's  character  to  the 
inmost  heart,  and  each  had  proved  the  other's  fidelity.  In  his 
present  grief  each  knew  that  the  other  suffered.  The  bereave- 
ment of  Cineas  had  not  been  twofold,  like  that  of  Labeo,  but 
his  sensitive  nature  made  his  feelings  keen  and  his  anguish 


OFF  TO  THE  WARS. 


35  » 


most  acute.  There  was  a  great  blank  in  his  life,  and  he  knew 
not  how  it  could  ever  be  filled.  For  he  had  been  so  accustomed 
to  rely  upon  Helena's  sympathy,  even  when  they  were  absent, 
that  it  seemed  a  necessity;  and  now,  since  he  had  lost  it,  he  felt 
sensible  of  its  value.  Where  again  could  he  ever  find  so  pure 
and  elevated  a  soul,  and  one,  too,  that  was  so  thoroughly  in 
unison  with  his  % 

Yet  there  was  another  whose  grief  was  not  less  keen  than 
that  of  these — a  ruder,  stronger  nature,  whose  despair  showed 
itself  in  the  mute  agony  of  his  face.     This  was  Galdus. 

Through  the  last  few  months  he  had  only  one  thought  in  life, 
and  that  was  Marcus.  When  the  little  boy  could  no  longer 
walk  about,  Labeo  had  taken  away  from  Galdus  that  charge 
which  was  so  sweet  to  the  latter;  yet  the  father,  in  his  deep  love 
and  sad  foreboding,  was  not  unmindful  of  that  other  strong 
love  that  lived  in  the  stout  heart  of  the  Briton.  He  was 
allowed  to  have  a  share  in  the  care  of  the  sick  boy,  and  pre- 
cious were  those  moments  when  Galdus  was  allowed  to  bear  so 
loved  a  burden. 

When  Labeo  carried  his  son  about  the  grounds,  then  Galdus 
followed  him  with  his  eyes,  and  stood  ever  on  the  watch,  wait- 
ing eagerly  for  some  opportunity  of  doing  something,  it  mattered 
little  what ;  but  anything  which  he  could  find  occasion  to  do 
afforded  him  the  highest  happiness. 

When  Marcus  could  no  longer  go  out  in  the  open  air,  then 
Galdus  stood  or  walked  all  the  time  near  to  his  room,  till  at 
last  Labeo  had  pity  on  him,  and  allowed  him  to  remain  inside 
the  chamber.  There  was  in  the  bearing  of  the  Briton  that 
stoicism  which  is  peculiar  to  the  savage,  but  those  who  watched 
him  saw  that  his  fortitude  often  broke  down,  and  whenever  his 
eyes  met  those  of  Marcus,  the  stern  rigidity  of  his  features 
relaxed  and  softened  into  an  expression  of  speechless  love. 

At  last  all  was  over,  and  Galdus  stood  up  like  the  image  of 
Despair.     He  remained  for  days,  and  sometimes  for  nights,  at 


,m 


m 


!»: 


ii 


iJfi 


II 


wi 

m      ' 

iV? ' 

'Uii 

i    'H 

'  w 

1    ■! 

J 

■ 

m 

If  i  : 

'H 

i 

1' 

3Sa 


OFF  70  THE  WARS. 


the  grave  of  his  lost  idol,  as  though  his  fidelity  could  recall  the 
departed.  His  instinct  of  love  bound  him  to  that  place  where 
he  saw  the  grave  of  that  love,  and  while  Labeo  and  Cineas 
struggled  with  their  grief  in  the  house,  Galdus  nursed  his  silent 
agony  at  the  sepulchre.  There  the  two  friends  sometimes  en- 
countered him,  and  saw  that  third  grief  which  might  rival  theirs. 
At  such  times  they  only  looked,  but  passed  by,  and  spoke  no 
word. 

After  a  time  a  change  came  over  Labeo.  His  first  stupor 
passed  away,  but  there  came  in  its  place  a  vivid  consciousness 
of  his  painful  loss.  It  aroused  within  him  a  violent  sorrow, 
which  found  expression  in  curses  against  Heaven.  It  made  him 
defiant  against  fate,  and  resentful,  as  though  his  affliction  had 
been  a  wrong.  The  thought  of  his  own  impotence  made  him 
more  passionate.  But  he  could  do  nothing.  There  was  no 
one  on  whom  he  could  wreak  revenge,  and  that  Heaven  which 
he  cursed  was  out  of  his  reach. 

One  morning  he  joined  Cineas  in  the  garden,  with  his  face 
more  pallid  than  usual,  and  bloodshot  eyes,  and  a  wild  restless- 
ness in  his  face  that  startled  his  friend. 

**  Cineas,"  said  Labeo — and  it  was  almost  the  first  word  that 
he  had  spoken  to  him  deliberately  for  months — "  I  can  stand 
this  no  longer.     I  will  kill  myself  if  this  goes  on." 

Cineas  looked  at  him  in  sad  wonder,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  have  already  made  the  attempt,"  said  the  other.  "  It  was 
this  morning — at  dawn,"  he  spake  at  intervals.  "  I  had  passed 
a  night  which  was  more  sleepless  than  usual,  and  my  heart 
ached.  A  sudden  impulse  came  over  me.  I  will  put  an  end 
to  this  at  once  and  for  ever.  Why  should  I  live  if  I  have  to 
live  thus  1    And  a  great  longing  came  over  me  for  death. 

"  I  rose  and  took  the  dagger  of  my  ancestor,  which  I  have 
always  carried,  and  made  a  libation  to  Jupiter  the  Deliverer, 
and  then  stretched  out  my  arm,  so  as  to  plunge  the  dagger  into 
my  heart.     But " — and  Labeo's  voice  became  low  and  broken 


.,*• 


OFF  TO  THE  WARS. 


353 


It  was 
)assed 
heart 
^n  end 
ive  to 

have 
liverer, 
fcr  into 
Iroken 


with  emotion — "  suddenly  I  thought  I  heard  a  voice — not  of 
this  world — a  voice  that  spoke  to  my  soul  only — it  was  his 
voice — it  said,  *  Father,  we  will  meet  again.' 

"  And  the  dagger  dropped  from  my  hand.  O  my  son  !" 
groaned  Labeo,  clasping  his  hands,  "  did  you  see  me  from 
among  the  stars,  and  come  to  stay  my  hand  1  I  accept  the 
omen,  whether  it  be  my  own  delusion  or  the  voice  of  the  loved. 
[  will  not  die  like  a  coward,  to  avoid  suffering.  If  it  were  shame 
that  was  before  n.\e,  then  I  would  follow  my  ancestor. 

"  But  I  must  put  an  end  to  this.  I  cannot  live  thus.  Every 
day  makes  it  worse,  and  I  suffer  more  now  than  when  the  blow 
first  fell." 

"  Do  you  feel  thus,  O  friend  of  my  soul  1"  said  Cineas,  in  low, 
melancholy  tones.  "  If  so,  then  there  is  an  alternative  for  both 
of  us — for  you  and  for  me  :  let  us  go." 

«  Go  !    Where  1 " 

"Away — away — anywhere  away  from  this.  To  an  active 
life,  where  we  can  forget  all  this,  and  forget  ourselves.  To 
Judea." 

"  Judea  !"  said  Labeo,  not  quite  understanding  him. 

"  Yes,"  said  Cineas,  with  a  vehemence  that  was  unusual  with 

him.     "  To  Judea — after  the   legions — to  war.     For  war  is 

there.     The  whole  land  has  risen  in  rebellion,  and  there  will 

be  fighting  such  as  the  world  has  not  seen  since  PhiHppi.    That 

will  force  something  else  in  our  thoughts.    We  will  follow  the 

eagles  of  Rome.     You  shall  lead  your  legions  to  victory.     We 

will  fight  side  by  side,  and  scale  the  walls  of  those  rock-built 

cities  that  are  perched  on  the  summits  of  the  mountains.    Then, 

if  we  want  death,  it  will  come  soon  enough,  I  doubt  not ;  and 

if  life  is  desirable,  it  will  be  a  life  with  thoughts  that  are  more 

endurable  than  those  which  we  have  here.     The  war  has  begun, 

and  armies  have  already  marched  there  to  avenge  the  defeat  of 

Cestius.     I  heard  about  it  yesterday  in  the  town." 

Then  Cineas,  fearful  that  Labeo  might  hesitate,  spoke  of  his  old 
(\m  23 


'\m 


f:      .      t 


n 


\r'-!j 


m. 


354 


OFF  TO  THE  WARS. 


.•i 


u 


ilf 


;1    (. 


Jl 


legion,  which  had  gone  there,  and  of  those  old  tent-companions 
with  whom  Labeo  had  already  shared  the  perils  of  campaigning 
and  the  stern  excitement  of  war.  At  the  sound  of  his  insidious 
eloquence  Labeo  felt  all  his  old  military  ardour  stir  within  his 
breast;  recollections  that  had  long  slumbered  awakened  into 
fierce  and  active  life;  all  the  soldier  was  aroused  within  him; 
he  recalled  the  glorious  old  days  of  the  campaign  and  the  fervid 
heat  of  the  battle ;  visions  of  Roman  standards,  and  gleaming 
arms  and  white  tents,  arose  before  him ;  his  eyes  sparkled,  his 
nostrils  quivered,  and  his  heart  beat  fast. 

"  Away ;  let  us  go,"  he  cried,  interrupting  Cineas.  "  That  is 
the  true  life  for  a  man  and  a  Roman.  Why  do  I  stand  here 
whimpering  like  a  child,  when  I  have  all  this  before  me  ?  Let 
us  hasten.  We  will  go  together.  You  are  not  a  soldier,  Cineas, 
but  you  are  a  brave  man,  and  you  know  the  use  of  arms,  and  I 
wrli  show  you  how  to  lead  Roman  armies." 

"I  will  .go  with  you,  and  with  no  other,  in  life  or  in  death, 
to  the  end  of  the  world.  If  we  die,  let  us  die  nobly,  like  men ; 
in  battle,  and  not  in  our  beds." 

At  the  stimulus  of  this  new  idea  the  two  friends  hastened 
their  departure.  Galdus  was  soon  informed  of  their  determina- 
tion.    They  asked  him  to  accompany  them. 

The  idea  had  as  much  power  over  the  heart  of  the  Briton  as 
it  had  exerted  over  Labeo. 

"  You  are  going  to  war  1"  said  he. 

"  Yes." 

The  eyes  of  Galdus  glowed. 

•'And  I  am  free?" 

"  As  free  as  I  am." 

"  Then  I  will  go  too,  but  not  with  you.  O  Labeo,  there  are 
other  wars  for  me.  I  am  a  Briton,  I  will  not  fight  under  the 
standards  of  Rome. 

"  I  am  a  Briton,  and  I  am  in  the  land  of  my  fathers.  I  hear 
the  voices  of  my  fathers  in  my  dreams,  and  they  call  on  me  for 


OFF  TO  THE  WARS. 


355 


vengeance.  I  have  forgotten  them,  and  made  my  ears  deaf  to 
their  cries.     I  hear  them  now,  and  I  will  obey. 

"  Over  all  our  British  hills  the  tribes  are  yet  dwelling,  and  in 
the  north  they  are  all  free.  If  I  am  a  free  man  I  will  live  my 
free  life  among  them. 

"  The  one  whom  I  adored  as  my  god  has  left  me,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  faltering  voice.  "  What  is  left  to  me  but  to  go 
back  to  my  old  gods  1  My  people  want  me.  They  need  de- 
fenders yet.     I  will  fight  for  them,  and  die  for  uiem." 

Labeo  said  nothing.  He  thought  that  Galdus  would  go  back 
to  his  tribe,  and  throw  away  his  life  in  some  hopeless  insur- 
rection. But  he  understood  the  man,  and  did  not  try  to  change 
his  resolution. 

"  I  will  not  wait  till  you  go,"  said  Galdus.  "  I  will  leave 
first,  and  at  once.  O  father  of  him  whom  I  adored,  let  me 
embrace  you  for  the  last  time,  then  leave  me  at  the  sepulchre, 
and  before  dawn  I  will  go." 

The  Briton  then  embraced  Labeo,  and  turned  away.  All 
that  night  he  lay  near  the  tomb  of  Marcus.  In  the  morning 
they  looked  for  him,  but  he  had  gone. 

Labeo  and  Cineas  did  not  delay  long.  A  few  days  com- 
pleted th  jir  short  preparations,  and  then  they  quitted  the  house, 
and  soon  looked  back  on  the  white  shores  of  Britain  as  they 
sped  over  the  waves. 

The  incidents  of  the  journey  distracted  their  thoughts,  and 
prevented  them  from  brooding  over  their  grief  so  incessantly  as 
they  had  done. 

Soon  they  reached  Rome. 

Then  Labeo  embraced  his  mother  and  told  her  of  his  deter- 
mination. The  venerable  lady  acquiesced,  for  she  thought  it 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  Sympathizing  with  her 
son  in  his  deep  grief,  she  was  glad  that  there  was  an  opportunity 
for  nim  to  escape  from  it  in  the  cares  of  an  active  campaign. 

Before  he  left  lie  made  final  arrangements  for  the  comfort  of 


\\i 


i'^A^m. 


\ . 


':    I 


''  ^ 
ii 


I 


1:^.'' 


.^!  hi 


I''        ■'' 


{ 


\ 


3.0 


OFF  TO  THE  WARS. 


his  mother.  He  made  Julius  the  overseer  of  his  estate,  which 
to  the  young  centurion  was  a  great  step  upwards  in  the  paths  of 
life,  and  urged  him  to  be  careful  for  the  comfort  of  Sulpicia. 
Lydia  was  already  dear  to  the  venerable  lady,  for  she  had 
learned  to  love  her  when  she  was  living  jt  the  villa,  and  with 
her  companionship  Labeo  felt  that  his  mother's  happiness  would 
be  secure. 

Then  he  thought  of  that  faithful  servant  whose  fidelity  had 
already  been  proved  in  many  cases  for  many  years,  and  as  all 
his  preparations  now  were  final,  he  determined  to  see  Isaac 
free. 

When  he  announced  this  to  the  Jew,  he  was  surprised  at 
the  result.  A  flush  of  emotion  passed  over  his  face,  and  was 
instantly  succeeded  by  a  deathly  pallor.  The  Jew  fell  at  Labeo's 
feet. 

"  May  the  God  of  Abraham,  of  Isaac,  and  of  Jacob  give  unto 
you  his  richest  blessings  and  prolong  your  life,  and  make  all 
your  hopes  and  your  desires  fulfilled." 

Labeo  interrupted  him,  and  assured  him  that  he  had  already 
done  enough  to  deserve  it,  and  the  gratitude  which  he  had 
shown  was  a  rich  reward  for  this  freedom  which  he  had  given. 
"  But  why  this  joy  %  I  thought  your  life  here  was  happy.  You 
always  seemed  content." 

"  Most  noble  Labeo.  The  exile  is  never  happy  or  content. 
His  heart  is  breaking  always.  To  a  Jew,  his  country  is  dearer 
than  to  any  other.  And  for  me,  day  and  night  have  I  wept 
when  I  remembered  Zion.  But  I  have  trusted  in  my  God,  and 
he  is  the  rock  of  my  salvation.  He  has  heard  my  prayer. 
Praised  be  his  name." 

"  But  you  cannot  go  back  to  your  country  now." 

Isaac  cast  down  his  eyes. 

"  There  is  war  there." 

"  I  had  rather  die  there  than  live  elsewhere,"  replied  Isaac 

"Will  you  go  there?"  asked  Labeo,  in  surprise. 


OFF  TO  THE  WARS. 


11 


357 


"  You  will  not  prevent  me  1"  cried  Isaac,  imploringly. 

**  Prevent  you  1  never,  if  you  wish  to  go." 

Isaac  raised  his  head  ^nd  said  nothing,  but  there  was  that  m 
his  heaving  breast  and  flashing  eyes  which  expressed  unutter- 
able things.  Labeo  did  not  understand  it  then.  He  found  out 
the  meaning  afterwards. 


% 


Ji 


fill    !•      ' 


i  '^ 


w 


|t^ro  in  (Bxmt. 

EFORE  Cineas  left  Rome  for  Britain,  Nero  had  ex- 
perienced an  extraordinary  revival  of  his  artistic  and 
literar}'  tastes.     For  some  time  he  had  divided  his 
time; between  voluptuous  excesses  and  ambitious 
schemes  for  enlarging  the  bounds  of  the  empire,  when  a  cir- 
cumstance occurred  which  turned  all  his  thoughts  in  another 
direction. 

A  deputation  was  sent  from  the  cities  of  Greece,  which  brought 
to  Nero  the  victor's  crown  for  excellence  in  music.  No  con- 
ceivable thing  could  have  given  greater  pleasure  to  him  than  this. 
It  was  unexpected,  and  made  him  beside  himself  with  joy.  He 
received  the  deputies  with  the  warmest  welcome,  invited  them 
to  his  table,  and  bestowed  upon  them  every  honour  that  he 
could  think  of.  He  talked  with  them  in  his  usual  strain  about 
art  and  literature  ;  he  sang  to  them,  and  they  listened  with  rap- 
ture, and  gave  him  the  greatest  applause.  As  Greeks,  and  as 
guests  of  Caesar,  they  were  not  sparing  in  their  adulation,  and 
their  delicate  flattery  filled  him  with  delight.  He,  in  his  turn, 
regarded  them  with  admiration  on  account  of  their  taste,  which 
made  them  so  appreciate  his  fine  talents,  and  in  his  enthusiasm 
neglected  all  other  enjoyments  and  all  public  business.  The 
Greeks  humoured  him  to  the  top  of  his  bent,  and  at  length 
urged  him  earnestly  to  visit  Greece  and  give  the  inhabitants  of 
that  country  an  opportunity  of  hearing  his  divine  voice,  telling 


I^ERO  IN  GREECE. 


359 


him  that  it  was  not  right  for  him  to  hide  his  splendid  genius  in 
a  country  like  Italy,  where  he  could  in  no  way  be  appreciated, 
and  assuring  him  that  if  the  Greeks  could  only  witness  his  mar- 
vellous accomplishments,  they  would  give  him  the  highest  prizes 
in  all  their  games. 

The  prospect  of  such  brilliant  fame  as  this  dazzled  Nero 
completely,  and  drove  everything  else  out  of  his  thoughts.  He 
determined  to  visit  Greece,  and  began  to  make  his  preparations. 
These  were  carried  out  on  the  most  magnificent  scale.  An 
army  of  noble  youths,  five  thousand  in  number,  headed  by 
Tigellinus,  was  chosen  to  accompany  him.  In  addition  to  these 
there  was  a  vast  number  of  all  the  most  dissolute  and  worthies., 
characters  of  the  city.  But  this  host  of  attendants  did  not^ 
carry  arms;  they  took  with  them  musical  instruments  only,  i- 
that  all  the  accompaniments  of  the  expedition  might  be  in 
keeping.  A  thousand  waggons  carried  supplies,  and  these  were 
drawn  by  mules  which  were  shod  with  silver.  All  the  horses 
were  decorated  with  the  richest  trappings,  and  a  striking  feature 
in  the  display  was  presented  by  a  great  number  of  African  slaves, 
all  richly  dressed,  and  with  costly  bracelets  on  their  arms. 

These  preparations  took  up  some  time,  but  at  length  he 
landed  in  Greece.  Then  he  made  arrangements  necessary  for 
the  success  of  his  enterprise.  The  games  of  Greece,  according 
to  immemorial  custom,  took  place  usually  on  different  years, 
but  Nero  could  not  wait  for  the  regular  period  of  their  celebra- 
tion. He  therefore  issued  orders  that  all  should  be  holden 
during  his  visit,  and  that  each  should  wait  till  his  arrival  at  the 
place.  Jealous  of  the  fa'.ne  of  those  men  who  had  gained  prizes 
in  former  ages,  he  ordered  ull  their  statues  to  be  destroyed; 
yet  he  invited  all  the  most  eminent  artists  then  living  to  enter 
into  competition  in  every  department  of  art,  or  of  gymnastic 
exercise,  whether  poetry,  or  music,  or  running,  or  chariot- 
driving. 

Then  he  began  that  marvellous  tour  through  Greece,  visiting 


f 


ir    t 


M' 


1^ 


u . 


\i 


1 1     '' 


^i  ii 


,'(1 


I* 


i  m 


<■  ii 


i  .-I 


., 

i'l 

V 

»'■'' 

j 

R' 

'  ' 

E|  1 

1 

^\ 

^ 

ii;i; 

■;■:. 

^i  ^ 

:l 

ji 

^i 

!, 

.il 

r 

360 


A^i^i^O  /A^  GREECE. 


city  after  city,  and  exhibiting  himself  to  the  people.  At  every 
exhibition  care  was  taken  that  the  applause  which  was  expected 
should  be  forthcoming.  His  own  immediate  followers  were 
distributed  among  the  audience,  so  as  to  direct  the  plaudits  of 
the  rest.  The  applause  was  not  wanting.  Every  exhibition  of 
the  emperor  was  a  brilliant  triumph,  and  Nero  gave  himself  up 
completely  to  the  intoxication  of  the  hour.  The  competitors 
who  appeared  confessed  themselves  vanquished  by  the  superior 
genius  of  the  master  of  the  world,  and  one  unhappy  man  who 
had  the  folly  to  dispute  the  prize  was  despatched  by  the  lictors 
in  sight  of  the  assemblage.  A  slight  was  punished  as  treason. 
Vespasian  happened  to  be  present  on  one  occasion,  and  fell 
asleep  during  the  performance.  He  was  banished  from  the 
Court  by  the  indignant  emperor,  and  might  have  perished  for  his 
bad  taste  had  not  the  Jewish  war  required  his  services. 

While  the  people  gave  their  applause,  they  had  to  undergo 
a  painful  struggle  with  that  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous  which 
distinguished  the  Greeks.  They  saw  this  performer  make"  his 
appearance  with  all  the  affectation  of  a  professional  favourite, 
straining  his  voice,  rolling  his  eyes,  rising  on  his  toes,  losing  his 
breath,  and  exerting  himself  till  his  naturally  red  complexion 
turned  crimson  and  purple.  He  appeared  in  all  kinds  of  exer- 
cises :  now  as  a  musician,  now  as  a  tragedian,  and  at  another 
time  as  a  charioteer.  On  one  of  these  last  exhibitions  at  the 
great  Olympic  games  he  was  thrown  from  his  car,  and  had  to 
leave  the  course  unfinished.  He  gained  the  prize,  however,  all 
the  same. 

Thus  he  won  his  triumphs,  and  the  venerable  honours  of  the 
Nemean,  the  Pythian,  the  Isthmian,  and  the  Olympic  games 
were  all  heaped  upon  him.  In  all  his  performances  he  gained 
eighteen  hundred  different  crowns.  Of  all  these  he  sent  back 
to  Rome  the  most  glowing  accounts.  The  senate,  as  usual, 
passed  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the  gods,  and  made  the  days  of  his 
victories  public  festivals. 


i> 


XEKO  IN  GREECE. 


361 


of  the 
games 
gained 
It  back 
usual, 
of  his 


Yet  it  was  not  all  triumph  even  to  Nero.  Amid  all  his 
festivities  it  was  possible  for  this  man  to  suffer  sometimes  from 
the  stings  of  a  guilty  conscience.  He  carried  for  years  the 
terrible  memory  of  his  mother's  murder,  and  confessed  once 
that  he  was  haunted  by  her  ghost,  which  followed  him  with 
whips  and  scorpions  like  one  of  the  Furies.  On  account  of 
these  pangs  of  conscience,  he  did  not  dare  to  visit  Athens,  for 
there  he  knew  he  would  see  the  ancient  temple  and  enclosure 
of  the  Awful  Goddesses.  Sparta  was  also  unapproachable  to 
iiim,  since  the  laws  of  Lycurgus  singled  out  such  crimes  as  his 
for  conspicuous  punishment.  He  did  not  dare  to  visit  the 
Eleusinian  mysteries,  for  the  crier  there  warned  off  all  murderers 
and  parricides.  Such  superstitious  fears  as  these  kept  him  thus 
away  from  those  very  places  to  which  his  tastes  would  have 
first  led  him. 

During  his  expedition  his  extravagance  was  without  limit, 
and  in  order  to  satisfy  his  demands  worse  oppression  arose  in 
Rome.  Those  whom  he  left  behind  to  govern  in  his  absence 
were  only  too  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  practising  tyranny  on 
their  own  account.  Enormous  sums  of  money  were  raised  by 
means  of  the  greatest  cruelty  and  extortion,  and  Rome  became 
a  scene  ot  plunder  and  bloodshed.  The  richest  and  most 
illustriuus  men  of  Rome  were  marked  out  as  victims,  and 
ordered  to  despatch  themselves — a  common  order  in  these 
times,  which  no  one  ever  presumed  to  disobey.  But  Nero  did 
not  restrict  his  cruelty  to  Rome.  His  love  for  Greece,  and 
everything  Greek,  did  not  at  all  deter  him  from  plundering  the 
country  of  his  love.  The  very  cities  which  had  listened  to  his 
voice,  and  given  their  applause,  were  made  the  victims  of  his 
rapacity,  and  the  most  eminent  citizens  were  banished  or  put 
to  death,  so  that  their  property  might  be  seized. 

Meantime  the  state  of  Rome  began  to  grow  alarming.  The 
people  found  the  tyranny  of  Nero's  subordinates  unendurable, 
and  loud  and  fierce  clamours  arose.     Despatches  were  sent  to 


'^ 


*  II 


t  :'  ill 


V 


362 


NEKO  IN  GREECE. 


the  emperor  warning  him  of  the  state  of  things,  and  urging  his 
return.  Nero,  however,  by  this  time  had  been  excited  by  a 
new  scheme,  which  was  to  cut  a  canal  through  the  Isthmus  of 
Corinth.  He  therefore  remained  longer,  so  as  to  insure  the 
accomplishment  of  this  work,  and  gain  by  it  immortal  glory. 
While  seeing  about  this,  he  still  continued  his  public  exhibi- 
tions, and  divided  his  time  between  bioody  tragedies  in  real 
life,  and  false  ones  on  the  stage. 

At  last,  however,  danger  increased  everywhere.  Rome  was 
on  the  point  of  insurrection.  The  flame  began  to  spread 
elsewhere.  The  regent  Helius  left  Rome  in  alarm,  and  hurry- 
ing over  to  Greece,  came  to  Nero  at  Corinth.  The  report 
which  he  brought  back  rendered  a  further  stay  in  Greece  im- 
possible, and  Nqro  was  forced  to  quit  the  scene  of  his  glory, 
after  having  been  there  about  a  year. 

Nero  arrived  in  Naples  first,  and  there  made  a  triumphant 
entry,  which  was  worthy  of  the  marvellous  genius  who  had 
carried  off  so  many  prizes.  Other  cities  repeated  the  scene  of 
triumph,  and  at  length  all  splendours  culminated  at  Rome. 
Before  him  there  passed  a  long  procession,  which  carried  the 
victorious  crowns  and  wreaths  which  he  had  won,  and  held 
aloft  inscriptions  which  proclaimed  the  splendid  genius  of  the 
great  Roman  who  had  conquered  all  the  Greeks  in  their  own 
special  domain.  The  city  resounded  with  songs  of  praise  and 
sacred  hymns,  directed  to  Apollo,  the  presiding  deity  of  music 
and  poetry.  After  the  long  procession  there  appeared  the 
triumphal  car,  which  once  was  used  by  Augustus.  There  sat 
Nero,  and  by  his  side  Diodorus  the  musician.  Flowers  were 
strewn  in  the  way  before  the  emperor.  Victims  were  offered 
up,  and  the  smoke  of  the  sacrifice  and  of  incense  arose,  and 
the  streets  resounded  with  the  shouts  and  acclamations  of  those 
who  sought  to  express  by  fitting  cries  the  most  appropriate 
welcome  to  such  a  victor. 

Now,  amid  all  this,  there  was  one  thing  which  filled  Nero 


^f 


NERO  IN  GREECE. 


3«3 


with  anger  and  resentment,  and  that  was  the  absence  of  Cineas. 
He  had  expected  that  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  accom* 
pany  him  to  Greece,  to  share  his  triumphs  and  behold  his 
accomplishments.  Instead  of  that,  he  had  never  made  his 
appearance,  nor  even  sent  an  excuse.  In  an  expedition  of  this 
kind  Cineas  was  all-important.  The  respect  which  Nero  felt 
for  his  splendid  attainments  increased  his  desire  that  he  should 
be  present,  and  aggravated  his  disappointment  at  his  absence. 
At  first  he  thought  that  this  absence  was  o  /ing  to  the  jealousy 
of  Tigellinus,  and  angrily  charged  his  favourite  with  the  offence; 
but  from  the  representations  of  the  latter  he  learned  that  this 
was  not  the  case. 

Amid  the  excitement  of  his  tour  through  Greece,  he  made  no 
inquiries  after  Cineas;  but  still,  to  the  very  last,  thought  that  the 
Athenian  would  make  his  appearance.  He  sincerely  believed 
that  Cineas  was  losing  the  highest  enjoyment  of  which  he  was 
capable,  in  not  hearing  his  own  divine  voice;  and  often,  when 
the  theatre  rang  with  the  acclamations  of  thirty  thousand  voices, 
he  thought  to  himself, — Oh,  if  Cineas  were  here  ! 

But  month  after  month  passed  away,  and  still  Cineas  came 
not,  and  his  absence  grew  more  and  more  unaccountable.  At 
first  Nero  felt  no  resentment,  for  he  thought  that  Cineas  would 
be  sufficiently  punished  by  learning  the  full  extent  of  all  that 
he  had  missed.  But  soon  resentment  came,  and  the  thought 
grew  up  in  the  mind  of  Nero  that  he  was  slighted,  till  the 
thought  became  positive  suspicion,  and  suspicion  deepened 
into  conviction.  The.  his  rage  knew  no  bounds,  and  his  soul 
was  filled  by  one  all-consuming  desire  for  vengeance. 

Not  till  he  arrived  at  Rome  did  he  make  inquiries  after 
Cineas.  He  then  learned  all  the  facts, — that  Cineas  had  gone 
to  Britain,  and  then,  returning  with  Labeo,  had  set  out  with  the 
latter  for  Judea. 

This  completed  the  rage  of  Nero.  Cineas  had  known  that 
he  was  in  Greece,  and  yet  had  chosen  to  go  to  Judea.     For 


ii 


:-| 


i   i  J 


11 

i 


t 


^x 


\\   ^ 


■4'. 


A  <^ 


364 


NERO  /A'  GREECE. 


what?    For  idle  curiosity.     Certainly  not  for  fighting.     And  he 
had  proved  himself  indifferent  to  the  genius  of  Caesar.     It  was  , 
a  slight,  an  insult.     He  iihould  die !  -  \ 

The  very  first  thing  that  he  did  was  to  send  oflF  a  command 
for  the  arrest  of  Cineas  and  his  transportation  to  Rome  for 
trial. 

'*  He  shall  die  this  time,"  said  Nero  to  Tigellinus.  "  I  will 
try  and  see  if  death  cannot  be  made  terrible  even  to  him."        ^ 


liir 


f'i 


**i^ 


Mil; 


t 


U'i 


"  I  will 


XXXIV. 

®^^e  ^nb  0f  Ucro. 

HE  applause  which  Nero  had  heard  in  the  streets  of 
Rome  was  destined  to  be  the  last  that  was  offered 
to  that  mixture  of  tragedy  and  comedy  which  com- 
posed his  life.  Hardly  had  he  returned,  when  he 
discovered  a  most  dangerous  conspiracy.  This  he  crushed, 
and  then,  thinking  that  his  future  was  secured,  he  determined 
to  leave  the  dangers  of  the  capital,  and  enjoy  himself  in  a  safer 
place.  He  therefore  went  to  Naples,  and  gave  himself  up  for 
a  time  to  his  passions  and  his  music.  There  he  found  every- 
thing to  his  taste.  His  soldiers  could  overawe  the  populace 
of  an  inferior  town.  The  beauty  of  the  surrounding  country 
gratified  him.  The  scenery  of  Naples  was  always  agreeable  to 
him,  and  the  delights  of  Baiae  were  close  at  hand. 

But  his  enjoyment  here  was  only  for  a  short  time.  The 
whole  world  was  roused,  and  rose  up  to  free  itself  from  an  op- 
pression which  was  not  only  terrible  but  also  contemptible. 
For  some  time  there  had  been  trouble  in  Gaul,  and  here  the 
first  movements  took  place.  There  was  a  man  named  Vindex, 
who  was  descended  from  the  old  kings  of  Aquitania,  who  now 
came  forward  prominently  as  the  deliverer  of  a  world.  Actuated 
either  by  hatred  of  tyranny,  or  by  personal  ambition,  or  by 
both,  he  determined  to  cast  down  Nero  from  the  throne  which 
he  had  disgraced.  He  wrote  letters  to  the  governors  of  the 
sunounding  provinces,  and  among  others  to  Galba,  who  com- 


I'iii. 


i\\ 


366 


THE  END  OF  NERO. 


ji  • 


manded  in  Spain,  proposing  the  destruction  of  Nero.  Galba 
was  the  most  powerful  and  the  most  eminent  of  these.  He  be- 
longed to  the  Sulpician  family,  and  was  therefore,  to  some  ex- 
tent, related  to  Labeo.  He  was  a  well-known  soldier,  and  his 
name  was  among  the  most  eminent  of  the  time.  He  received 
the  proposals  of  Vindex  with  much  irresolution,  and  neither 
accepted  them  nor  declined  them.  But  the  other  governors  all 
refused  to  join  Vindex,  either  from  fear  or  loyalty,  and  sent  his 
letters  to  Nero. 

Vindex,  however,  pursued  his  design.  He  went  round 
among  the  Gauls  and  aroused  them.  Soon  a  league  was 
formed,  and  he  found  himself  at  the  head  of  a  powerful 
army. 

Galba  remained  caudous  and  irresolute.  At  length  he  called 
an  assembly  of  the  people,  at  New  Carthage,  and  found  them 
so  hostile  to  Nero  that  they  saluted  him  as  emperor  on  the 
spot. 

Nero  heard  all,  but  tried  to  shut  his  eyes  to  the  danger.  He 
used  to  talk  for  a  short  time  each  day  to  his  friends  about  the 
affairs  of  state,  and  then,  finding  the  subject  extremely  un- 
pleasant, he  would  take  them  off  to  play  to  them,  or  exhibit 
his  fine  artistic  talents.  He  was  particularly  proud  of  a  machine 
which  played  music  by  the  action  of  water,  and  jocularly  re- 
marked that  he  intended  to  exhibit  it  on  the  stage,  if  Vindex 
would  let  him. 

But  gradually  the  news  grew  more  and  more  alarming. 
Galba  had  at  length  decided  against  him  without  reserve.  Vin- 
dex was  growing  more  powerful  every  day,  and  had  scattered 
incendiary  proclamations  everywhere,  in  which  Nero  was  called 
**  iEnobarbus,"  and  a  '*  vile  comedian."  The  name  ^nobar- 
bus  belonged  to  Nero's  father,  and  was  particularly  hateful,  but 
it  was  nothing  as  an  epithet  compared  with  the  other  words, 
"  vile  comedian."  When  he  first  heard  it  he  was  at  a  banquet, 
and  in  his  rage  he  leaped  up,  overthrowing  the  banqueting'- 


i 


THE  END  OF  NERO. 


367 


table.  He  at  once  wrote  to  the  senate,  and  to  stimulate  them 
still  more  he  added,  "  Judge,  O  Conscript  Fathers,  of  the  in- 
solence of  Vindex He  has  dared  to  say  that  I  have  a 

bad  voice,  and  play  ill  on  the  lyre."  The  senate  at  once  pre- 
pared to  exert  the  power  of  the  state.  They  proclaimed  Galba 
a  public  enemy,  and  set  a  reward  on  the  head  of  Vindex. 

Orders  were  given  to  different  generals  to  march  against  the 
rebels.  Among  others,  Virginius  Rufus  had  received  such  com- 
mands,  and  prepared  to  obey  them.  His  own  soldiers  hated 
Nero,  and  offered  him  the  empire.  Whatever  were  his  ultimate 
objects,  he  determined,  however,  to  march  against  Vindex,  and 
this  he  accordingly  did.  The  armies  came  together  and  stood 
opposite  each  other,  when  Vindex  requested  an  interview.  The 
interview  took  place,  and  Virginius  made  some  kind  of  agree- 
ment with  the  rebel  chief,  and  began  to  withdraw  his  army, 
when  suddenly  the  soldiers,  misunderstanding  the  movement, 
and  animated  by  hate  to  the  Gauls,  made  an  attack  of  their 
own  accord.  The  bat*ie  soon  became  general.  The  Gauls 
were  defeated,  and  fled,  and  Vindex,  in  dejection,  threw  himself 
upon  his  sword. 

Galba  heard  of  this  with  despair,  but  Nero  was  triumphant. 
As  the  tidings  had  grown  more  and  more  alarming,  Nero  had 
become  conscious  of  his  perilous  position,  and  had  sent  out 
commands  to  different  armies,  to  recall  them  and  concentrate 
them  against  the  common  enemy.  He  had  also  left  Naples 
and  returned  to  Rome.  Then  the  news  came  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  Vindex  and  his  army,  and  the  emperor,  in  a  transport 
of  joy,  took  his  harp,  and  tuning  it,  burst  forth  into  songs  of 
triumph. 

But  all  the  world  was  now  aroused.  All  Rome  was  in  a  state 
of  discontent,  and  ripe  for  rebellion.  Nero,  in  his  self-com- 
placency, was  quite  unconscious  that  he  had  given  cause  for 
hatred,  but  rather  liked  to  think  of  himself  as  a  most  admirable 
and  rather  popular  character,  guilty  perhaps  of  one  or  two 


'if 


11: 1 

^1 


368 


THE  END  OF  NERO. 


crimes,  but  on  the  whole  worthy  of  admiration.  He  considered 
that  his  triumphs  in  Greece  of  themselves  constituted  an  un- 
equalled claim  on  the  gratitude  of  the  people.  But  the  courtiers 
thought  differently.  They  could  see  the  impending  storm,  and 
of  them  all  none  saw  it  so  clearly  as  Tigellinus.  This  man, 
true  to  his  character,  when  he  saw  the  declining  fortunes  of  his 
master,  determined  not  merely  to  desert  him,  but  to  accelerate 
his  ruin.  In  company  with  another,  Nymphidius  by  name, 
they  formed  a  plot,  and  succeeded  in  exciting  rebellion  among 
the  Praetorian  guards.  They  espoused  the  cause  of  Galba,  and 
by  means  of  bribes  and  dazzling  promises  seduced  the  allegiance 
of  these  men.  Soon  all  was  accomplished,  and  Nero's  strongest 
reliance  had  fallen  away. 

Nero,  in  the ;  meantime,  was  sensible  of  the  universal  dis- 
affection. The  senate  exhibited  it,  the  people,  and  the  guards. 
Fear  entered  into  his  soul.  Terror  and  the  desire  for  vengeance 
actuated  him  by  turns.  He  thought  at  one  time  of  setting  the 
city  on  fire  again,  and  letting  loose  the  wild  beasts  of  •  a 
amphitheatre  among  the  populace,  while,  in  the  confusion,  he 
would  fly  to  Egypt.  This  was  discovered  '..>;]  /.ported  publicly, 
and  served  to  increase  the  publi-   exaspe?ation, 

Tigellinus  and  Nymphidius  then  saw  that  the  time  had  come. 
But  they  were  unwilling  to  go  forward  prominently,  and  chose 
rather  to  work  upon  the  fears  of  Nero.  They  therefore  sought 
him,  with  dejected  countenances,  and  told  him  that  all  was 
lost;  that  the  people  and  the  guards  were  on  the  point  of 
rising;  that  his  only  safety  lay  in  flight,  and  chat  he  had  not  a 
moment  to  lose. 

Despair  now  came  to  the  falling  monarch.  There  was  no 
lotigc;r  any  hope  of  retrieving  his  fortunes.  The  soldiers  whom 
he  had  recalled  were  in  part  out  of  reach,  and  in  part  dis- 
aTr<;t?d.  He  looked  ever  /where  for  help,  but  found  none. 
H'  vvarider.^d  £D(mt  the  palace,  not  knowing  where  to  fly  or 
wiiat  to  vlo,     Then  the  in2mories  of  his  crimes  recurred  to  his 


!  ..' 


THE  END  OF  NERO. 


369 


mind,  and  above  all  the  foul  murder  of  his  dearest  relatives. 
Still,  even  in  his  anguish,  the  ruling  passion  of  his  life  was 
visible,  and  when  he  gave  utterance  to  his  despair,  he  did  so  in 
a  line  from  the  (Edipus  of  Sophocles,  which  he  used  to  speak 
on  the  stage, — 

"  My  father,  mother,  wife,  they  bid  me  die  ! " 

He  tried  to  get  a  ship  to  carry  him  to  Egypt,  and  ordered 
one  to  be  prepared  at  Ostia.  In  vain.  No  one  would  obey 
his  orders.  One  of  the  soldiers,  seeing  his  terror,  quoted  a 
line  of  Virgil  to  him, — 

"  And  is  it  then  so  dread  a  thing  to  die  ?  " 

He  then  tried  to  take  poison  which  had  been  prepared  for 
him,  but  could  not  muster  sufficient  courage.  He  went  to  his 
room,  and  threw  himself  on  his  couch.  His  anguish  was 
terrible.  He  called  for  some  one  to  despatch  him  ;  but  finding 
no  one  willing,  he  exclaimed,  "  My  friends  desert  me,  and  I 
cannot  find  an  enemy."  Then  he  rushed  toward  the  Tiber, 
with  the  intention  of  drowning  himself;  then  he  came  back 
again,  unable  to  do  so,  and  resolved  to  sail  to  Spain,  and  beg 
his  life  from  Galba.  But  no  ship  would  take  him  to  Spain. 
Confused  and  bewildered,  he  thought  over  scores  of  plans,  but 
none  were  feasible.  He  thought  of  going  forth  dressed  as  a 
suppliant,  and  using  his  well-known  eloquence  in  a  pathetic 
appeal  to  the  people ;  but  the  fear  of  that  people's  fury  de- 
terred him.  There  in  his  palace  stood  the  emperor  of  the 
world,  with  no  enemy  in  sight,  but  conscious  that  all  the  world 
was  now  his  enemy,  without  any  hope  of  flight  or  escape. 

*'  Is  there  no  hiding-place,  where  I  may  have  time  to  think 
about  what  I  may  do  % "  he  cried. 

One  of  his  freedmen,  named  Phaon,  offered  to  take  him  to  a 
place  a  few  miles  away  from  the  city,  where  he  could  hide  for 
a  time.  Nero  eagerly  accepted  the  offer.  He  hurried  off. 
without  shoes,  without  robes,  and  with  nothing  but  his  tunic. 

24 


■M 


^"1 

'I 

.Mi 


(    hi 


I   . 


W'  \ 


:    1 


I     I. 


370 


T//E  END  OF  NERO. 


He  threw  an  old  cloak  over  him  as  a  disguise,  and  covered  his 
face  so  as  not  to  be  recognized.  Three  others  besides  Phaon 
accompanied  him. 

This  was  the  way  in  which  he  passed  his  last  night. 

At  daybreak  the  Praetorian  guards  met  and  proclaimed 
Galba.  The  senate  confirmed  their  nomination.  They  then 
declared  Nero  a  public  enemy,  and  condemned  him  to  death 
according  to  the  rigorous  laws  of  the  old  republic. 

Meanwhile,  Nero  hurried  off  to  Phaon's  villa.  As  he  rode, 
he  heard  the  shouts  that  arose  from  the  Praetorian  camp.  A 
labourer  in  a  field  by  the  roadside  started  as  they  passed,  and 
said,  "  See,  these  men  are  pursuing  Nero."  Further  on  a  dead 
body  lay  in  the  road,  at  the  sight  of  which  his  horse  started. 
Arriving  at  a  distance  from  the  house,  they  stopped  the 
horses,  and  dismounting,  crossed  a  field  covered  with  rushes. 
Phaon  then  wished  to  conceal  Nero  in  a  sand-pit  till  he  pre- 
pared a  subterranean  passage  into  tlie  house.  But  Nero 
refused,  for  he  said  that  would  be  burying  himself  alive.  A 
hole  was  soon  made  in  the  lower  part  of  the  wall  of  the  house, 
and  Nero  crept  throurih.  He  was  led  to  a  dirty  room,  and  laid 
himself  down  on  a  mean  bed,  with  a  tattered  coverlet  thrown 
over  him.  They  brought  here  some  bread,  but  the  sight  of  it 
made  him  sick ;  and  the  only  water  which  they  could  get  was 
foul  in  the  extreme.     Of  this,  however,  he  tasted  a  little. 

All  saw  t'^at  concealment  or  safety  was  impossible.  After  a 
time  they  told  Nero  this,  and  advised  him  to  kill  himself  This 
was  his  only  escape  from  the  vengeance  of  his  enemies.  He 
knew  this  well,  but  death  was  terrible,  and  he  tried  to  postpone 
it  as  long  as  possible. 

Before  leaving  Rome,  Phaon  had  arranged  with  one  of  his 
servants  to  bring  the  news  of  the  city.  While  they  were  wait- 
ing, the  messenger  came,  bringing  some  documents.  Nero 
seized  them  eagerly,  and  read  the  proclamation  of  the  senate, 
in  which  he  was  to  be  punished  by  the  old  republican  law. 


THE  END  OF  NERO. 


371 


•'What  kind  of  death  is  that?"  he  asked.  "What  is  the 
ancient  custom  1 "  ,>  ' 

Phaon  at  first  hesitated,  but  at  length,  being  urged,  he  re- 
plied,— 

**  By  the  law  of  the  republic,  the  man  who  suffers  death  as  a 
public  enemy  has  his  head  fastened  between  two  stakes,  en- 
tirely naked,  and  is  thus  beaten  to  death  by  the  lictor's  rods." 

Nero  shuddered,  and  said  nothing.  Then  he  drew  two 
daggers  which  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  stood  up  brand- 
ishing one  in  each  hand.  Then  he  tried  the  points  of  each, 
after  which  he  extended  his  arms  once  more,  and  stood  for  a 
moment  summoning  up  all  his  resolution.  All  who  were  pre- 
sent expected  that  he  would  strike  himself  at  that  moment  to 
the  heart. 

But  Nero,  after  a  few  moments,  calmly  put  back  both  daggers 
into  their  sheaths,  and  turning  to  one  of  the  attendants,  said, — 

"  Sing  the  funeral  dirge,  and  offer  the  last  rites  to  your  friend." 

The  one  whom  he  addressed  sang  the  dirge,  and  Nero 
listened  with  evident  emotion.     Then  there  was  a  silence. 

At  last  Nero  cried, — 

"  Why  will  not  one  of  you  kill  himself,  and  show  me  how  to 
diel" 

None  of  them,  however,  complied  with  this  invitation,  but 
sat  looking  at  the  floor. 

Then  Nero  folded  his  arms,  and  looking  at  each  one  burst 
into  tears. 

But  after  a  while  he  started  up  and  said, — 

"  Nero,  Nero,  this  is  infamy  !  You  linger  in  disgrace  ;  this 
is  not  the  time  for  Svorrowful  emotions;  the  time  demands 
manly  courage." 

But  the  courage  which  he  desired  did  not  seem  to  come,  and 
he  stood  irresolute,  now  fumbling  at  his  daggers,  and  now  pacing 
up  and  down  the  small  chamber. 

At  last  he  stopped  and  looked  fiercely  at  his  attendant!, 


% 


■  *■  1 


"1 
^^1 


♦  ;i 


k 


37« 


THE  END  OF  NERO. 


If       •■'! 


rtf 


"  You,"  said  he,  "  are  cowards  and  traitors.  If  you  were  not 
you  would  show  me  how  to  die.  Oh,  if  there  were  one  here 
whom  I  have  known.  For  I  have  known  a  man,  and  only  one 
in  all  my  life,  who  laughed  at  death.  Oh,  if  he  were  here  I 
Cin^as  !  Cineas !  where  are  you  now  ?  Why  did  you  forsake 
yo  *  friend  1  You  at  least  have  no  complaint  against  me.  O 
Cineas,  if  you  were  but  here,  how  well  you  could  show  me  the 
path  to  death  !     Alas  !  what  an  artist  dies  in  me  !  " 

While  he  was  speaking,  a  sound  arrested  his  attention.  It 
was  well  known.  It  was  the  sound  of  a  troop  of  horse.  They 
were  in  pursuit. 

Nero  started.  He  shuddered  in  his  fear.  But  fear  could  not 
destroy  his  ruling  passion.  It  was  not  his  words,  but  the  words 
of  Homer  that  burst  from  him, — 

"  The  sound  of  rapid  rushing  steeds  is  striking  on  my  ear." 

Seizing  one  of  his  daggers,  he  mustered  all  his  courage,  and 
plunged  it  in  his  throat.  One  of  the  attendants  l*^nt  his  aid  to 
a  second  blow.  It  was  a  mortal  wound.  Nero  fell  back 
dying.     They  lifted  him  on  the  couch. 

Not  long  after,  the  pursuers,  who  had  by  some  means  or  other 
learned  his  hiding-place,  entered  the  house,  and  rushed  into  the 
room  headed  by  a  centurion.  The  centurion  tried  to  stop  the 
flow  of  blood. 

Nero  languidly  raised  his  eyes. 

"  Too  late,"  he  said ;  and  then  added,  in  a  scarce  audible 
voice,  "  Is  this  your  fidelity'?" 

The  next  instant  all  was  over. 

He  lay  dead,  but  in  death  still  terrible,  for  the  impress  of  his 
fierce  passions  yet  remained  to  awe  the  beholders.  The 
mastery  of  those  passions  by  which  he  had  been  governed  for 
years  had  left  its  impress  on  his  features.  His  face,  which  in 
youth  had  not  been  unpleasing,  had  become  terrible  and  fierce 
in  its  expression,  and  even  in  death  the  ferocity  remained,  and 
struck  terror  into  those  who  ^itood  near. 


XXXV. 

HILE  the  armies  of  the  West  were  thus  rebelling 
against  the  emperor,  the  armies  of  the  East  were 
putting  down  a  rebellion. 

Vespasian  left  Nero  in  Greece,  and  wielded  the 
strength  of  Rome  in  Judea.  He  encountered  no  common  foe. 
The  Jews  were  a  warlike  people,  brave  and  resolute,  and  they 
were  defending  their  own  country.  That  country  was  formed 
by  nature  for  defence.  Whatever  plains  it  had  were  surrounded 
by  mountains,  which  acted  as  a  bulwark  against  the  invader, 
where  brave  men,  although  undisciplined,  could  make  a  heroic 
defence,  and  often  keep  an  army  at  bay.  Among  the  moun- 
tains there  were  passes  which  no  invader  could  penetrate  without 
a  most  severe  struggle,  and  stout-hearted  men  were  there  who 
were  ready  to  make  every  pass  another  Thermopylae. 

These  men  had  something  more  than  the  common  bravery 
of  a  valorous  race.  They  were  inspired  by  a  great  idea.  Every 
man  believed  that  God  was  on  his  side ;  he  c;  lied  to  mind  the 
glories  of  the  past,  when  that  God  had  interposed  to  save  them, 
and  had  enabled  them  tc  overcome  enemies  as  terrible  as  the 
Romans.  The  sacred  Psalms,  which  formed  part  of  their 
religious  service,  commemorated  the  national  triumphs  won  in 
the  past,  and  no  man  who  sang  them  could  doubt  that  they 
would  be  repeated  in  the  future.  Even  defeat,  though  it  con- 
tinued in  long  succession,  could  not  shake  their  resolution  or 


lit' ill 


%\ 


'  i» 


'i 


m  \'  I 


374 


yUDEA. 


I  i;i 


weaken  their  confidence  in  God.  They  still  looked  forward  to 
the  time  when  he  would  interpose,  and  when  his  help  would  be 
all  the  more  conspicuous  from  the  fact  that  it  had  been  long 
delayed.  So  each  defeat  found  them  as  determined  as  ever ; 
and  if  they  retreated  from  one  place,  it  was  only  to  renew  the 
conflict  in  another. 

This  fierce  fanaticism  of  the  Jews  inspired  all  alike — men, 
women,  and  children.  They  had  been  bom  and  nurtured  in  a 
nation  where  one  idea  was  universal,  and  that  was  the  settled 
conviction  that  they  were  the  chosen  and  favoured  people  of 
the  Most  High.  Surrender  was  never  tliought  of.  In  all  their 
fights  the  only  alternative  of  victory  was  death.  There  was  no- 
middle  ground.  This  resolution  was  strengthened,  if  it  could  be 
strengthened,  by  the  wretched  fate  of  those  prisoners  who  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  Romans.  They  were  ma('e  slaves  of  the 
worst  kind,  and  sent  to  labour  at  the  canal  at  Corinth.  Every 
new  incident  of  the  war,  whether  it  was  a  success  or  a  reverse, 
only  strengthened  the  stubborn  temper  of  the  Jews,  and  made 
them  fight  with  a  more  reckless  desperation  and  more  deathless 
ardour. 

An  ordinary  general  might  have  failed  before  such  enemies 
as  these — so  fierce,  so  reckless,  so  lavish  of  life,  so  patient,  and 
so  vigilant  \  an  enemy  who  waited  not  to  be  attacked,  but  flung 
tliemselves  upon  their  foes  with  an  impetuous  charge,  that 
sometimes  bore  down  everything ;  who  were  not  content  with 
fighting  by  daylight,  but  attacked  with  equal  energy  by  night; 
who  fell  back  only  to  make  a  fresh  assault,  and  even  in  death 
hurled  defiance  at  the  conqueror. 

But  Vespasian  was  a  general  of  no  common  kind.  His  men 
had  been  brought  into  the  best  possible  discipline,  and  he  knew 
how  to  make  use  of  them  to  the  best  advantage.  To  the  fa- 
naticism of  the  Jews  he  opposed  the  disciplined  valour  of  the 
Roman  legions,  and  his  own  genius.  Gradually  the  latter  pre- 
vailed, and  slowly  but  surely  the  Roman  eagles  were  borne 


tt 


JUDEA. 


375 


forward  over  the  land,  and  the  Jews  fell  back  sullenly,  still 
fighting,  and  still  looking  for  the  long-expected  deliverer. 

This  was  the  conflict  into  which  Labeo  and  Cineas  had 
thrown  themselves,  and  this  was  the  general  under  whom  they 
fought.  They  thought  nothing  of  the  justness  of  their  cause, 
because  they  took  it  for  granted  that  it  was  just,  since  it  was  a 
war  against  rebels.  The  name  of  Rome  was  enough  to  them. 
But  it  was  not  a  cause  which  they  sought :  their  object  was  war, 
in  the  fury  and  the  ardour  of  which  they  hoped  to  find  respite 
from  the  grief  that  consumed  them.  It  is  action,  vigorous 
action,  that  can  keep  the  mind  from  preying  on  itself;  and  it 
was  action  that  they  desired,  little  caring  what  that  action 
might  be. 

From  the  first  moment  of  their  arrival  in  Judea  they  had 
found  what  they  desired, — the  wild  excitement  of  active  war 
against  a  race  of  vigilant  and  courageous  enemies.  They  at 
once  entered  upon  this  new  life  with  an  ardour,  an  eagerness, 
and  a  recklessness,  which  made  them  both  conspicuous.  Their 
unfaltering  friendship,  their  close  association,  and  their  union, 
both  in  the  fight  and  out  of  it,  made  them  famous  both  among 
their  own  men  and  the  enemy.  They  undertook  the  most 
desperate  enterprises,  and  one  was  as  reckless  of  his  life  as  the 
other.  Wherever  one  went,  the  other  went  also ;  and  this  union 
in  friendship  and  in  valour  soon  made  them  so  marked,  that  the 
Roman  armies  regarded  these  two  as  their  especial  champions, 
and  the  camp  rang  with  their  fame.  Cineas  was  rapidly  ad- 
vanced, and  might  have  had  command  of  a  legion  if  he  had 
wished  it ;  but  Labeo  had  already  been  promoted  to  such  a 
command,  and  Cineas  had  no  higher  desire  than  to  be  as  near 
as  possible  to  his  friend.  Promotion  was  nothing  to  him.  He 
was  only  glad  that  his  advance  had  been  sufficiently  rapid  to 
enable  him  to  continue  with  Labeo,  and  live  in  the  same  tent, 
and  be  near  him  in  the  conflict.  Promotion  made  no  difference 
in  their  conduct  in  battle.     Labeo  showed  more  recklessness 


X    '' 


'I 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


A 


^>i 


1.0 


I.I 


■A&12.8 

■^  1^    |2.2 


Ui 


IM 


2.0 


HI 


1-25      1.4    11.6 

« 6"     

► 

7] 


/i 


#: 


7 


Hiotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STRIET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14SS0 

(716)  S72-4503 


mi, 


\ 


sj 


\ 


:\ 


376 


yUDEA. 


than  was  considered  wise  in  the  commander  of  a  legion,  and  led 
his  men  to  the  most  perilous  undertakings;  and  Cineas,  who 
had  less  responsibilities,  risked  his  person  more  freely  still. 

The  tumult  of  battle,  the  necessity  of  continuous  vigilance, 
the  fatigue  of  constant  marches,  the  excitement  of  victory, — all 
served  to  give  occupation  to  their  thoughts,  and  draw  them  away 
from  those  memories  which  were  so  agonizing.  Labeo  thought 
no  more  of  suicide.  In  the  care  which  he  had  to  bestow  upon 
his  command,  he  found  that  this  life  had  yet  occupation  for  his 
thoughts  and  demands  upon  his  regard.  Patriotism  awaked 
and  pat  forward  its  claims.  Military  ardour  entered  into  rivalry 
with  sorrowful  regret,  and  being  more  active  and  more  passionate, 
proved  superior.  The  great  responsibility  which  now  rested 
upon  him  brought  iis  own  cares  and  ils  own  anxieties;  his 
mind  was  forced  to  occupy  itself  in  plans  of  attack  or  of  defence ; 
he  had  to  take  part  in  council  with  the  other  generals,  and  recall 
all  his  experience  in  the  past  so  as  to  make  it  useful  in  the 
present.  Such  things  as  these  took  up  a  large  share  of  his 
thoughts — but  little  time  was  left  for  other  things.  When  he  was 
able  to  think,  these  subjects  forced  themselves  before  him,  and 
demanded  consideration;  and  when  he  was  unable  to  give 
them  his  thoughts,  their  weariness  and  fatigue  overpowered  him, 
and  he  often  turned  from  his  professional  cares  to  sleep. 

As  it  was  with  Labeo,  so  it  was  with  Cineas.  New  occupa- 
tion of  mind  brought  new  cares  and  new  thoughts,  not  perhaps 
so  weighty  as  those  of  his  friend,  but  still  sufficiently  important 
to  employ  the  greater  part  of  his  attention.  In  his  inferior 
position,  also,  he  had  less  responsibility,  and  greater  opportunity 
for  displaying  individual  valour.  He  headed  fierce  charges,  led 
oflf  desperate  expeditions,  and  in  every  enterprise  which  de- 
manded peculiar  daring  and  utter  carelessness  of  life  he  stood 
forward  most  prominently  as  the  leader.  Thus  each  in  a  differ- 
ent way,  but  in  the  same  employment,  had  found  that  which 
they  most  desired, — a  respite  from  sorrow. 


yUDEA. 


):| 


'  The  war  went  on,  and  still,  in  spite  of  the  most  heroic  resist- 
ance, the  Jews  were  driven  back  before  the  armies  of  Rome. 
The  strategic  skill  of  Vespasian  overmatched  their  headlong 
valour.  Pass  after  pass  was  penetrated,  citadel  after  citadel  was 
seized.  With  Vespasian,  a  campaign  meant  incessant  action. 
But  litfle  time  for  rest  was  allowed,  either  to  his  own  soldiers  or 
to  those  of  the  enemy.  ' 

Yet  even  in  such  a  war  as  this,  so  crowded  with  events,  it 
was  not  possible  but  that  there  should  be  some  periods  of  rest. 
Short  as  these  were,  they  yet  occurred,  and  the  soldiers  formed 
their  camps,  and  rested  for  a  while  from  their  labours.  These 
were  the  times  that  were  most  dreaded  by  Cineas  and  Labeo. 

For  then,  when  all  was  secure,  and  the  army  rested  in  the 
well-fortified  camp,  and  action  for  a  while  was  suspended,  the 
activity  of  mind  which  the  business  of  war  created  was  sue 
ceeded  by  a  reaction,  and  from  all  their  excitement  they  had  to 
fall  back  upon  idleness,  and  all  the  thoughts  that  inaction  could 
foster. 

For  with  them  thought  at  such  times  meant  memory,  and 
memory  meant  misery.  All  that  was  sweet  in  past  life  now 
became  turned  to  bitterness,  from  the  fact  that  all  was  lost,  and 
every  pleasing  recollection  gave  only  a  sting  to  the  heart,  which 
still  yearned  over  the  past,  and  longed  after  it  in  its  desolation. 
All  that  past  was  overshadowed  by  that  great  cloud  of  grief  in 
which  it  had  all  terminated,  and  thought,  which  reverted  to 
early  life,  went  on  through  that  life  till  it  came  to  the  gloom  of 
that  ueath-chamber  in  Britain. 

Their  only  chance  of  peace  or  calm  lay  in  incessant  action, 
and  when  that  ceased,  then  all  within  grew  dark  and  gloomy. 
Before  Cineas  there  came  the  form  of  that  lost  one  to  whom  all 
his  soul  had  been  so  closely  bound,  and  all  the  joys  of  that 
early  life,  which  once  had  been  so  sweet,  now  were  turned  into 
sorrows  unspeakable  by  the  thought  that  all  had  ended  in  death. 
Before  Labeo  there  arose  the  form  of  his  idolized  boy,  with  his 


i^^fc 


I 


378 


yUDEA. 


Is  :| 


■s  s 


\i  l\ 


Hi 


last  words  of  love  and  longing — words  which  lingered  yet,  and 
sounded  in  his  ears  always,  as  though  they  would  enforce  atten- 
tion and  rouse  him  to  obey  them. 

At  such  times  the  two  friends  instinctively  sought  each 
other's  society,  feeling  in  the  silent  sympathy  of  one  another's 
hearts  a  peace  and  a  comfort  that  nothing  else  could  give. 
They  did  not  speak  many  words  with  one  another ;  they  sat  in 
silence ;  but  sometimes,  in  low,  mournful  tones,  they  would 
talk  of  their  old  days  at  Athens,  and  while  speaking  of  the 
times  when  they  were  boys  together,  they  sometimes  felt  almost 
as  if  they  were  boys  again.  Yet  in  that  boyhood  at  Athens 
there  was  one  who  was  always  present,  enlightening  the  scene, 
whose  merry  girlish  laugh  rang  down  through  the  years,  and 
whose  fair  delicate  form  rose  before  them  among  the  images  of 
that  past  whichi  they  thus  recalled.  Her  name  was  never  men- 
tioned by  either,  but  each  felt  that  she  stood  prominent  in  the 
thoughts  of  the  other,  and  though  they  did  not  trust  themselves 
to  name  her,  they  yet  carried  her  in  their  hearts  as  the  centre 
around  which  all  memories  gathered. 

Of  Rome  or  of  Britain  they  never  spoke.  That  was  differ- 
ent. For  those  places  were  connected  with  a  time  when 
Helena  was  with  Labeo,  all  his  own,  and  when  his  home  was 
filled  with  sunshine  by  the  bright  beauty  of  that  boy  whom  he 
so  adored.  Nothing  which  was  in  any  way,  however  remote, 
connected  with  Marcus,  was  ever  alluded  to  by  Labeo.  That 
was  too  sacred  for  even  a  distant  allusion ;  the  grief  was  all  his 
own,  and  Cineas  could  not  understand  the  fathomless  depths 
of  a  father's  love  and  longing. 

So  passed  the  hours  of  rest,  irksome  and  painful  to  both, 
and  the  effort  was  made  to  beguile  their  thoughts  by  plans  of 
war ;  but  the  effort  was  often  useless,  and  the  only  remedy  for 
both  lay  in  renewed  action. 

The  action,  however,  was  never  long  delayed.  The  short 
periods  of  rest  were  soon  over,  the  camp  was  broken  up,  and 


JUDEA. 


379 


the  march  began  once  more,  and  the  fight,  and  the  struggle, 
with  its  dangers  and  vicissitudes,  gave  its  own  occupation  to 
the  mind. 

Into  that  struggle  they  rushed  with  renewed  ardour,  flying 
from  thoughts  so  sad,  flying  from  themselves,  and  seeking  to 
renew  that  remedy  which  they  had  found  before. 

Thus  the  campaign  went  on,  and  month  after  month  passed, 
and  the  Jews  fell  back  further  and  further,  evermore  facing  the 
invader,  and  never  dreaming  of  giving  up.  For  now  the  whole 
nation  had  roused  itself  as  it  had  never  done  before,  and  all 
the  patience,  and  all  the  expectation,  and  all  the  longing  of  all 
its  past  life  now  sought  satisfaction.  Faith  looked  for  the  great 
Deliverer,  and  still,  through  defeat  and  ruin,  awaited  his  ap- 
pearance. 


1 


1*  J 


1     J 


liU 


.» 


XXXVI. 

j|HE  Roman  army  had  been  delayed  for  weeks  before 
Jotapata.  The  city  was  one  of  the  strongest  in  the 
country,  and  here  all  the  scattered  bands  of  Jewish 
warriors  who  had  fallen  back  before  the  invader 
had  taken  refuge.  The  siege  was  carried  on  by  the  Romans 
with  the  utmost  skill  and  vigour,  but  the  Jews  fought  with  such 
energy — they  were  so  vigilant  in  defence,  and  so  active  in  their 
sorties — that  but  little  progress  was  made.  The  gain  of  one 
day  was  lost  on  the  next. 

The  Roman  army  thus  lay  before  the  city,  still  preparing 
those  engines  common  to  the  war  in  those  days,  employing  all 
the  means  of  attack  then  known,  and  carrying  on  their  opera- 
tions with  that  patient  perseverance  which  always  distinguished 
them. 

Labeo,  as  usual,  had  been  most  active  in  urging  his  men  to 
the  attack.  His  battering-rams  were  brought  up  most  fre- 
quently, and  hurled  most  furiously  against  the  massive  walls ; 
his  men  rushed  most  desperately  to  the  assault,  whether  by 
scaling-ladders  or  by  movable  towers  ;  and  the  balistas  and 
catapults  which  he  employed  were  worked  most  incessantly. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  he  annoyed  the  Jews  most,  he  also  suf- 
fered most  from  them ;  he  was  exposed  to  the  most  frequent 
attacks,  and  was  forced  to  make  use  of  the  most  watchful  vigil- 
ance. 


yOTAPATA. 


381 


w\ 


"M 


On  one  day  they  had  been  fighting  desperately.  The  Jews 
had  been  fired  with  new  ardour  by  the  advent  of  a  skilful 
leader,  who  was  conspicuous  on  the  walls,  and  stimulated  his 
men  to  acts  of  extraordinary  daring.  Burning  material  was 
showered  down  upon  the  soldiers  who  worked  the  rams.  Boil- 
ing oil  was  poured  upon  those  who  sought  to  scale  the  walls. 
One  movable  wooden  tower,  which  had  been  just  finished 
after  extraordinary  labour,  was  reduced  to  ashes,  and  the 
Romans  were  forced  to  retire,  wearied  and  exhausted,  to  their 
camp. 

There  they  retired  to  rest.  Labeo,  worn  out  by  the  day's 
labour,  flung  himself  upon  his  couch.  The  wearied  guards 
kept  a  languid  watch. 

Suddenly  a  shout  was  heard,  a  wild  cry  of  alarm,  followed  on 
the  instant  by  shouts  of  fury  and  of  vengeance.  The  wild 
alarm  spread  through  the  camp.  The  soldiers  started  to  their 
feet.  Labeo  was  up  first,  and  hastily  arming  himself,  rushed 
to  the  scene  of  tumult. 

The  camp  was  filled  with  confusion.  From  every  side  the 
soldiers  came  flocking,  some  half-armed,  others  unarmed,  an 
agitated  crowd.  The  guards  were  falling  back,  and  already 
within  the  ramparts  there  was  a  host  of  Jews,  who  in  their 
fierce  onset  swept  all  before  them.  At  their  head  was  the 
leader  whose  valour  had  been  so  conspicuous  on  the  walls  that 
day.  He  it  was  who  had  planned  this  night  attack,  and  he 
was  leading  on  his  men  to  victory. 

Labeo  saw  it  all  at  once.  In  an  instant  he  had  gained  his 
presence  of  mind.  He  issued  his  commands,  formed  his  men, 
and  presented  a  well-ordered  front  to  the  triumphant  enemy. 
The  Jews  rushed  forward-  The  Romans  withstood  the  shock. 
In  that  hour  of  alarm  and  terror,  they  stood  erect  and  bold, 
half-armed,  yet  without  fear,  inspired  by  the  cool  orders  of 
Labeo,  and  by  their  own  firm  discipline.  Again  and  again  the 
Jews  flung  themselves  upon  their  enemies,  but  the  Romans 


;i:    m 


ft     If 


38a 


yOTAPATA. 


Stood  their  ground.  Then  began  a  close  hand-to-hand  fight, 
in  which  each  assailant  singled  out  his  man  and  attacked  him 
personally. 

In  that  fight  the  leader  of  the  Jews  was  particularly  distin- 
guished. It  was  his  voice  that  animated  his  followers,  and  led 
them  on  with  fresh  fury,  after  every  repulse,  to  renew  their 
attack.  He  was  dressed  in  magnificent  armour,  which  had 
once  belonged  to  some  Roman  officer.  He  did  not  content 
himself  with  giving  orders,  but  led  the  way  himself,  using  his 
own  weapon  with  fatal  effect,  wherever  the  opportunity  pre- 
sented itself. 

Labeo  had  but  half  the  men  of  the  camp.  At  the  first  alarm 
he  had  formed  his  line  out  of  those  who  first  presented  them- 
selves. The  rest  were  scattered,  either  sleeping  yet  or  wander- 
ing in  disorder.  The  crisis  roused  him  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
daring.  He  stood  at  the  head  of  his  men,  and  freely  exposed 
his  life.  The  example  of  their  general  affected  all  the  soldiers. 
They  stood  their  ground  firmly,  and  remained  unbroken  by  the 
most  furious  charge  of  their  enemy. 

At  last  the  Jewish  leader  made  a  final  charge,  with  greater 
desperation,  against  the  place  where  Labeo  stood.  From  that 
tremendous  onset,  where  every  Jew  was  eager  to  devote  him- 
self to  death  for  the  good  of  his  people,  even  the  firm  Romans 
recoiled.  In  despair,  Labeo  seized  a  standard  and  called  upon 
his  men  to  follow,  and  plunged  into  the  ranks  of  the  enemy. 
The  Romans  rushed  forward  after  their  standard  and  their 
general.  The  struggle  that  ensued  was  fearful.  A  wild  rush 
from  both  sides  was  made  at  the  standard ;  the  one  with  the 
hope  of  capturing  it,  the  other  with  the  determination  to  save 
it.  In  a  few  moments  the  Jews  were  all  around  the  bold  leader 
who  had  thus  thrown  himself  among  them,  and  against  them 
pressed  the  solid  ranks  of  the  legions  of  Rome.  Labeo  lought 
them,  calling  on  his  men,  and  the  men  tried  to  hew  their  way 
toward  him  through  the  enemy. 


1! 


yOTAPATA. 


383 


At  last  Labeo  fell.  The  standard  was  torn  from  his  grasp. 
Covered  with  wounds,  he  lay  on  the  ground,  his  face  upturned, 
his  nervele  s  hand  feebly  waving  his  sword,  and  death  from  a 
dozen  spears  impending  over  him. 

Suddenly  a  cry  rang  through  the  din  of  the  combat. 

"  Away  !     Spare  him.     Attack  the  Romans.     He  is  mine." 

It  was  the  leader  of  the  Jews.  His  followers  obeyed,  and 
rushed  upon  the  Romans, 

The  Jewish  leader  flung  himself  upon  his  knees,  and  tried  to 
raise  up  Labeo. 

"  O  Labeo ! "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  which  was  well  remembered 
by  the  other.     *'  I  have  saved  you.     Thank  God !" 

"  Isaac !"  cried  Labeo,  in  amazement. 

"  It  is  I,"  said  the  other.  "  Alas  1  that  I  should  lift  my  hand 
against  one  whom  I  love.  I  recognized  you  by  your  voice  in 
the  gloom.     Thank  God,  I  have  saved  you." 

"  I  want  no  safety — death  is  what  I  want.  Leave  me,  and 
let  them  kill  me." 

"  Never.  I  will  save  you.  I  will  carry  you  to  where  you 
will  be  out  of  the  tumult." 

And  Isaac  stooped  to  lift  the  wounded  man  in  his  arms. 

But  at  that  moment  a  shout  was  heard,  and  a  great  throng 
of  armed  legionaries  rushed  forward  from  the  side,  taking  the 
assailants  in  flank.  At  their  head  was  Cineas,  who  had  been 
at  the  other  end  of  the  camp,  and  had  not  heard  the  first 
tumult.  But  at  the  first  noise  that  reached  him  he  had  started 
up,  and  gathering  all  the  men  of  that  quarter,  he  had  led  them 
to  the  scene  of  action.  His  quick  mind  had  at  once  compre- 
hended the  whole  state  of  affairs,  and  he  had  so  arranged  his 
attack  that  he  took  the  Jews  in  flank,  and  drove  them  back  in 
wild  confusion.  The  other  Romans  rushed  forward  with  fresh 
ardour,  and  the  Jews,  caught  thus  between  two  bands  of  assail- 
ants, fell  back  in  dismay. 

All  this  was  but  the  work  of  a  few  moments. 


!i 


■F 


It  •«  ; 


384 


yOTAPATA. 


iS- 


Isaac  placed  labeo  on  the  ground,  and  sprang  forward. 

"  Onward,"  he  cried.  "  In  the  name  of  the  God  of  Abraham, 
who  fights  for  us,  now  is  the  time.     Onward." 

But  the  Romans  overmatched  them  on  all  sides,  and  the 
most  frantic  efforts  of  the  Jews  were  unavailing.  The  former, 
borne  along  by  the  impetus  of  their  first  onset,  still  swept  all 
before  them ;  and  the  latter,  though  still  fighting,  were  yet 
unable  to  make  a  stand  against  the  full  tide  of  that  onset. 
Cineas  was  at  the  head  of  his  men,  in  the  midst  of  the  strife, 
calling  upon  them  to  avenge  this  disgrace  and  retrieve  their 
disaster.  Suddenly  he  saw  the  captured  standard  held  aloft 
amid  a  crowd  of  Jews.  To  this  he  sought  to  fight  his  way. 
He  pointed  this  out  to  his  men,  and  implored  them  by  their 
military  oath,  by  the  honour  of  the  E  oman  name,  and  by  their 
manhood  to  regain  that  lost  standard. 

The  Romans  made  more  furious  exertions,  and  now,  as  they 
rushed  in  on  all  sides  upon  the  Jews,  they  made  greater  headway. 

In  the  midst  of  the  throng  of  fighting  men  stood  Isaac, 
near  the  standard,  calling  to  his  men.  Toward  him  Cineas  led 
a  chosen  band  of  his  followers — men  whom  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  lead  in  desperate  enterprises.  A  short,  fierce  struggle 
opened  the  way  to  the  object  of  their  search — a  score  of  hands 
grasped  the  lost  standard — the  Jews  who  sought  to  retain  it 
were  cut  to  pieces. 

Then  Cineas  rushed  forward,  seeking  out  the  leader  of  the 
Jews,  to  attack  him  in  person. 

Isaac  stood  his  ground  with  a  handful  of  Jews  around  him. 
The  rest  were  all  falling  back  in  confusion.  His  voice  rang 
out  loud  and  stern  in  the  conflict,  mingling  entreaties  and 
reproaches.  But  his  men  could  not  rally,  and  soon  the  Romans 
were  all  around. 

"  Cineas!"  cried  a  feeble  voice  from  the  midst  of  the  con- 
fused mass  of  men. 

Cineas  heard  and  recognized  the  voice  of  Labeo.     He  lay 


of  the 


le  con- 


ic lay 


JOTAPATA. 


385 


on  the  ground,  trampled  by  struggling  soldiers  as  they  rushed 
to  and  fro.  In  an  instant  Cineas  had  flung  his  arms  around 
his  friend,  and  dragged  him  away  from  danger. 

"  Alas,  Labeo !  is  it  thus  I  find  you  1"  cried  Cineas,  in  a 
mournful  voice. 

"  Leave  me,"  said  Labeo,  faintly.  *'  Drive  back  the  accursed 
Jews.     But  don't  harm  Isaac." 

"  Isaac !"  exclaimed  Cineas,  in  bewilderment. 

"  He  is  the;  >eader.  He  saved  my  life.  Save  his.  Leave 
me.     Haste,  or  it  will  be  too  late  to  save  him." 

Though  startled,  Cineas  at  once  comprehended  the  situation. 
He  hurried  to  the  place  where  Isaac  still  fought.  He  ordered 
his  soldiers  to  take  the  Jewish  leader  alive. 

Isaac,  faint  and  weary  from  fatigue  and  wounds,  fought  but 
feebly  but  still  he  stood  his  ground,  for  he  had  determined  to 
die  there  in  that  camp ;  but  the  Romans  rushed  upon  him.  His 
sword  was  dashed  from  his  hand.  In  an  instant  he  was  knocked 
down  violently,  and  held  firmly  in  the  grasp  of  his  enemies. 

Meanwhile  the  Romans  kept  up  their  pursuit  of  the  Jews, 
and  now  had  it  all  their  own  way.  The  assailants  were  turned 
into  a  disorderly  band  of  panic-stricken  fugitives,  who,  crowded 
together  in  the  camp,  could  scarcely  find  ^  retreat.  Many  were 
able  to  leap  over  the  walls,  but  most  of  them  perished  within 
the  fatal  enclosure.     Few  returned  to  the  city. 

At  last  all  was  over ;  the  last  fugitive  had  departed,  the  last 
assailant  had  been  slain.  The  Romans  devoted  themselves  to 
the  task  of  securing  the  wounded  prisoners  and  conveying  them 
away,  and  burying  the  dead.  The  noise  of  the  soldiers  at  their 
work  filled  the  camp. 

Labeo  was  carried  to  his  tent,  and  his  armour  was  taken  off. 
Cineas,  knowing  Isaac's  skill,  brought  him  to  examine  the 
wounded  man,  Isaac's  bearing  was  dignified  and  serene  as  of 
old,  with  no  trace  of  dejection. 

Labeo  was  severely  wounded  in  several  places,  but  his  chief 

(183)  25 


?i 


'  .r'  \ 


\      1^       ill 


^86 


JOTAPATA. 


danger  arose  from  the  terrible  bruises  which  he  had  received. 
Isaac  examined  him  tenderly  and  carefully,  and  told  Cineas 
that  his  condition  was  very  dangerous,  but  that,  with  constant 
care  and  perfect  rest,  he  might  yet  recover.  In  Labeo's  tent 
he  found  such  simples  as  were  then  used  in  active  war  for 
wounds  and  sickness,  and  after  dressing  the  wounds,  retired  to 
an  arjjoining  tent  in  which  Cineas  had  placed  him. 

"  You,  too,  are  wounded,"  said  he  to  Isaac.  "  You  must 
attend  to  yourself  You  are  perfectly  safe,  for  you  are  under 
Labeo's  protection,  and  mine  also.  Do  not  feel  despondent 
You  will  be  free  again  before  very  long." 

"  Before  very  long  !"  exclaimed  Isaac  in  deep  emotion.  His 
eyes  glistened  j  tears  fell  from  them.  He  grasped  the  hand  of 
Cineas,  and  murmuring  some  scarce  audible  words,  he  turned 
away. 


.%, 


r- 


XXXVII. 


e  gltnistrs  of  Sorrote. 


|ABEO'S  wounds  were  so  severe  that  the  prospect  of 
his  recovery  was  uncertain.  The  first  care  of  Cineas 
was  to  remove  his  friend  away  from  the  scene  of 
conflict;  and  as  he  wished  to  attend  to  him,  he  also 
left  the  army  for  a  time,  and  took  Isaac  with  him.  They  went 
to  a  little  village  a  short  distance  from  Ptolemais,  which  was 
situated  upon  the  summit  of  a  lofty  hill.  The  wide  sea  spread 
out  before  them,  and  toward  the  south-west  lay  the  sublime 
form  of  Mount  Carrael.  Here,  in  this  pure  mountain  air,  with 
the  fresh  sea-breezes  blowing  continually,  Labqo  found  a  place 
where  he  could  be  most  speedily  restored.  Only  a  few  women 
and  children  remained  in  the  village.  Nearly  all  the  men,  and 
even  the  boys,  had  gone  away  to  fight.  Amid  these  careworn 
faces,  Cineas  saw  the  sad  traces  of  the  conflict.  The  husbands, 
brothers,  and  fathers  of  these  poor  villagers  had  left  them ;  and 
though  they  devoutly  believed  that  the  God  of  tht  Jews  would 
give  ultimate  victory  to  his  chosen  people,  yet  they  still  had 
fear  for  the  safety  of  their  own  loved  ones. 

Here  Isaac's  unremitting  care  wa^  followed  by  the  recovery 
of  Labeo.  Isaac  seemed  to  have  relapsed  into  his  former  self, 
— the  calm,  self-restrained  man.  No  trace  remained  of  that 
bold  leader  who  had  headed  his  fierce  followers  on  that  memor- 
able night  attack.  Cineas,  as  he  sometimes  looked  at  him, 
found  himself  wondering  whether  it  could  be,  indeed,  the  same 


388 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW. 


m 


m 


man ;  but  he  had  so  many  experiences  of  the  deep  fire  and 
passion  that  lay  beneath  all  this  calm  exterior,  that  he  saw  how 
this  man  could  appear  as  he  had  in  two  such  totally  different 
characters. 

At  last  Labeo  recovered  so  far  that  he  was  able  to  move  about, 
and  enjoy  the  open  air.  His  recovery  was  now  only  a  matter 
of  time. 

One  evening,  when  Labeo  had  retired  to  rest,  Cineas  sat 
with  Isaac  outside  looking  toward  the  sea,  to  where  Mount 
Carmel  reared  its  colossal  form,  now  looming  grandly  in  the 
dim  twilight.  Isaac  was  buried  in  his  own  thoughts,  and  said 
but  little. 

"Isaac,"  said  Cineas,  suddenly,  "do  you  want  to  be 
free?" 

Isaac  started.  "Free!"  he  cried,  and  then  said  nothing 
more. 

"  It  is  possible." 

"  Possible !  Are  you  ia  earnest  %  Free  %  O  Cineas,  I 
would  willingly  give  up  all  the  life  that  may  be  allotted  to  me, 
if  I  could  be  free  but  for  one  month — yes,  only  one  month." 

"  One  month  !  you  may  be  free  as  long  as  you  live.  For  you 
have  saved  Labeo's  life,  and  he  owes  you  a  debt,  and  so  do  I 
for  his  sake.    Yes,  Isaac,  you  deserve  your  freedom." 

Isaac  sat  looking  with  fixed  eyes  at  Cineas,  his  hands 
clenched,  and  his  breast  heaving  with  strong  emotion. 

"  But  if  you  were  free,  what  would  you  do  1  Would  you  be 
willing  to  stay  here  with  us  ?" 

"  0  Cineas,"  said  Isaac,  "  I  will  stay  here  as  long  as  you 
retain  me ;  but  if  you  once  say  that  I  am  free,  I  must  go." 

"  Would  you  not  stay  as  ?.  free  man  %" 

"  Not  an  hour." 

"  Not  for  Labeo's  sake  ?" 

"  There  is  another  that  I  love  more  than  Labeo." 

"  What !  have  you  relatives  1" 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW.  p^ 

•'  Israel !"  exclaimed  Isaac,  with  deep  emotion ;  "  my  country, 
my  people ;  that  is  a  love  that  is  the  strongest  in  me — for  thai 
I  will  gladly  lay  down  my  life." 

"Israel,"  said  Cineas,  mournfully;  "and  do  you  not  know 
that  your  countrymen  are  falling  back  everywhere  from  before 
the  Roman  armies  1" 

"  That  is  why  I  want  to  join  them."  ' 

"  If  you  do,  your  life  will  not  last  a  month." 

"  My  life  is  nothing.  It  is  not  my  life  that  I  love,  but  my 
country." 

"  But  if  your  countrymen  are  engaged  in  a  hopeless  task,  why 
should  you  care  to  join  theml" 

"  The  task  is  not  hopeless." 

"  The  Romans  have  been  victorious  thus  far." 

"  Ay,  but  the  time  will  come." 

"What  timer' 

"  The  time  when  all  this  will  be  changed.  God  reigns,  let 
the  nations  tremble." 

"  Your  God  has  done  nothing  yet." 

"  Our  God  can  wait.  He  is  patient.  He  has  his  own  time. 
He  watches  the  world  with  his  infinite  wisdom,  and  interferes 
at  his  own  set  hour." 

"  But  soon  there  will  be  nothing  to  save." 

"  No;  that  time  will  never  come." 

"  Not  when  Jerusalem  itself  shall  fall,  and  the  Temple  be  in 
the  hands  of  Roman  soldiers  ]" 

"Jerusalem!"  exclaimed  Isaac,  rising  to  his  feet.  "The 
Holy  City !  That  shall  never  fall — never !  The  Temple  shall 
never  be  defiled.  No ;  then,  if  the  Roman  armies  do  indeed 
penetrate  so  far,  then  He  will  interpose,  and  he  will  show  the 
world  that  he  still  reigns.  Oh,  may  it  be  my  lot  to  live  but  till 
then ;  then  most  gladly  will  I  die." 

"You  are  inflexible  in  your  purpose,  Isaac,"  said  Cineas, 
mournfully;  "and  obstinate  in  your  hope.     After  all,  I  can 


i|l| 


390 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW. 


understand  your  deep  love  for  your  country.     You,  even  if  you 
had  no  hqpe,  would  not  be  willing  to  survive  your  country." 

"  No,"  said  Isaac,  with  lofty  emphasis;  "  if  I  had  no  hope,  I 
would  still  choose  rather  to  lay  down  my  life  on  the  holy  hill  of 
Zion,  in  the  Temple  of  the  Most  High,  than  live  to  see  that 
Temple  defiled.  But  it  shall  not  be  defiled.  I  have  hope,  a 
glorious  hope;  yes,  something  more  than  hope,  since  it  is  a 
fixed  conviction,  a  faith  that  is  part  of  my  being,  which  I  shall 
cling  to  in  spite  of  every  misfortune,  till  death  itself  shall  come. 
My  faith  in  Him  cannot  be  shaken  by  any  conceivable  thing. 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  at  last  he  shall  stand 
upon  this  earth." 

Cineas  started,  for  he  had  heard  those  words  before. 

"  And  do  yoli  think  this  One  of  whom  you  speak  will  at  last 
come  to  head  your  armies'?" 

"  Every  day  only  increases  my  belief.  The  longer  he  delays, 
the  more  glorious  will  be  his  appearance.  And  I  now  believe 
that  it  is  best  and  wisest  for  him  thus  to  try  us.  He  is  testing 
our  faith.  He  knows  all  things,  and  acts  in  the  best  way.  Vv'e 
are  nothing  in  his  hands.     Praised  be  his  holy  name  !" 

"  Isaac,"  said  Cineas,  after  a  short  pause,  "  you  are  fiee." 

"Free!" 

"  Absolutely  free.  I  bid  you  go  if  you  wish,  or  stay  if  you 
wish.     You  are  no  longer  a  prisoner.     Do  you  heart" 

"  I  hear,"  said  Isaac ;  "  but  I  am  overwhelmed.  Say  that 
again,"  he  cried,  in  tones  of  entreaty.  "  Let  me  hear  it  once 
nore.     Let  me  know  that  my  ears  do  not  deceive  me.' 

Again  Cineas  repeated  those  words. 

Isaac  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  with  upturned  face  gave  thanks 
to  tho  God  of  Israel.  Then  turning  to  Cineas,  he  tried  to 
express  his  gratitude.  In  vain ;  emotion  overpowered  him. 
He  could  not  speak.  He  flung  himself  upon  Cineas,  and  em- 
braced him. 

Then,  without  a  word,  h'?  walked  hurriedly  away.     Cineas 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW. 


39» 


saw  his  figure  retreating  in  the  gloom.  He  watched  him  as  he 
strode  quickly  up  the  mountain  that  rose  behind  the  village, 
and  at  last  his  retreating  figure  was  lost  to  sight. 

As  long  as  Labeo  was  in  a  condition  which  was  at  all  critical, 
Cineas  had  a  general  anxiety  in  his  mind  which  created  full 
occupation  for  his  thoughts.  But  now,  when  the  danger  had 
passed  away,  the  old  feelings,  so  long  fought  against,  returned 
with  fresh  violence.  Convalescence  is  a  state  which  is  irksome 
to  the  mind.  Labeo  found  himself  going  back  to  a  life  which 
he  detested.  Each  day  only  added  to  his  gloom,  for  there 
came  before  him  more  freshly  than  ever  the  form  of  that  great 
grief  which  the  activity  of  war  had  only  lulled,  but  never  alto- 
gether quieted. 

The  departure  of  Isaac  threw  them  more  than  ever  upon 
themselves  and  their  own  thoughts.  There  was  nothing  which 
could  relieve  these  or  divert  them.  As  they  sat  together,  they 
found  themselves  drif  ng  back  into  the  old  melancholy  and 
the  old  despair. 

"  Alas  ! "  said  Labeo  once,  abruptly  breaking  a  long  silence, 
"  why  was  I  saved  1    Why  did  I  not  perish  there  1" 

Cineas  sighed,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  look  forward,"  continued  Labeo,  "  and  my  highest  hope 
is  death.  The  ambition  which  I  once  had  has  gone  long  ago. 
I  have  no  motive,  and  nothing  that  makes  life  sweet.  When  I 
was  in  the  field,  I  had  my  feelings  as  a  soldier  and  the  excite- 
ment of  the  campaign.     Those  are  gone  now." 

"  Don't  be  down-hearted,"  said  Cineas.  "  You  will  be  back 
to  your  legion  soon.     Every  day  makes  you  stronger." 

"  Yts  J  but  in  waiting  till  my  strength  comes  I  fret  my  heart, 
and  then  I  grow  weaker.  It  is  hard  for  the  body  to  recover 
when  the  soul  is  sick." 

So  they  used  to  speak.  Cineas  found  that  he  had  no  con- 
solation. 

Philosophy,  he  saw,  was  for  a  select  few,  and,  what  was  more, 


i 


i; 

•''  ffi 

;  ,  1 

11 

II 

392 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROIV. 


r 


for  those  only  when  in  health  or  in  prosperity.  In  sorrow  it 
failed.  What  did  it  give  him  now,  or  what  had  he  learned  from  it, 
that  he  could  offer  to  Labeo  1  Nothing.  All  that  he  could  say 
was  nothing  more  than  a  poor  legionary  might  say  to  his  sick 
companion, — "  Don't  be  down-hearted.    You  will  soon  be  well." 

To  him  and  to  his  friend  there  was  no  consolation  given  by 
Plato.  In  all  his  writings  he  found  nothing  which  could  soothe 
the  heart  in  its  anguish,  and  administer  comfort  and  speak 
peace  to  the  mourner.  There  on  every  page  stood  Socrates, 
sometimes  sublime,  but  most  frequently  ironical,  disputative, 
bantering,  not  the  figure  for  presentation  at  the  couch  of  sick- 
ness or  of  death.  His  soul  craved  words  that  were  more 
tender  and  sympathetic.  He  yearned  after  something  which 
he  could  take  to  his  heart 

There  came  up  before  him,  like  an  old  memory,  the  form  of 
One  of  whom  he  had  once  read,  and  who,  he  had  thought,  was 
far  superior  to  Socrates ;  One  who  was  always  tender,  always 
sympathetic — who  looked  with  love  upon  all  mankind,  and 
chose  out  for  his  associates,  not  the  proud,  the  wealthy,  or  the 
great,  but  the  poor,  the  lowly,  and,  above  all,  the  suffering.  It 
was  to  the  mourning  and  stricken  heart  that  He  best  loved  to 
draw  near,  and  speak  his  words  of  tender  consolation.  There 
came  up  before  him  that  face,  sad,  woful,  but  expressing  in 
every  lineament  pity  that  was  inexhaustible,  love  without  limit, 
infinite  mercy  and  compassion.  Was  not  this  the  teacher  for 
him  now  in  his  sorrow  1  Socrates,  the  man  of  iron,  was  driven 
out,  and  in  his  place  there  stood  the  Man  of  Sorrows. 

There  came  to  his  mind  that  Being  who  had  talked  of  this 
life  and  the  next  with  the  tone  of  one  who  was  in  both  the 
Lord  and  Master ;  who,  in  his  tender  pity  for  the  >rrow  of  this 
life,  never  ceased  to  point  to  another  life  where  sorrow  should 
all  be  over,  and  all  be  joined  in  him.  This  One  came  to  the 
mourner,  and  bade  him  not  crush  his  grief,  or  run  away  from 
it,  but  rather  look  up  and  gain  an  antidote,  and  see  in  God  and 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW. 


393 


in  heaven  that  which  could  rob  all  evil  of  its  sting,  and  take 
from  grief  its  sharpest  pang.  >*>    . 

This  One  had  himself  suffered  and  sorrowed,  and,  therefore, 
in  the  grief  of  others  knew  best  how  to  sympathize. 

And  Cineas  knew  well,  from  the  memories  that  now  crowded 
upon  his  mind,  how  true  that  comfort  was  which  this  One  could 
give.  He  had  seen  it.  He  had  marked  it  in  the  gloom  of  the 
catacombs,  where  those  who  lived  amid  darkness,  with  tears,  and 
in  fear,  yet  bore  up  against  all,  and  sometimes  evinced  a  lofty 
calm,  a  pure  and  elevated  resignation,  which  showed  that  they 
had  mastered  their  own  hearts  through  the  power  of  their 
faith. 

He  had  seen  it  there  under  the  pressure  of  the  same  grief 
which  he  was  enduring — when  bereavement  came,  and  the 
friend  of  a  life  was  snatched  away,  and  the  survivor  remained 
alone  in  the  world.  But  he  had  seen  the  survivor  stand  over 
the  grave  of  his  love  with  a  holy  peace  upon  his  face  and  in  his 
heart,  and  commit  his  treasure  to  the  tomb  and  turn  away,  and 
yet  not  be  overwhelmed. 

He  had  seen  mothers  nursing  the  wasted  forms  of  little 
children  who  were  pining  and  dying  in  their  drear  place  of 
banishment ;  and  yet  these  mothers  murmured  not,  nor  were 
their  hearts  broken.  Faith  made  them  look  away  to  that 
divine  consolation  which  they  had  cherished,  and  bereaved 
ones  would  thus  stand  before  the  grave,  and  join  in  the  song  of 
the  Christians — a  song  which  expressed  love  stronger  than 
death,  faith  triumphant  over  sorrow,  and  hope  full  of  immor- 
tality. 

More  strongly  than  all  others  he  recalled  the  words  of  Helena, 
spoken  when  her  son  had  gone  from  her.  Then  the  father  lay 
stupified  by  grief,  and  Cineas  was  speechless  ;  but  Helena  stood 
erect,  mourning,  but  calm,  and  spoke  words  which  Cineas  had 
treasured  in  his  heart : — 

"  He  said  we  would  all  meet  again ;  and  we  may  all  have 


iiiii  P 


*    15' 


394 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW. 


that  meeting.  Where  he  has  gone,  there  we  all  may  go  if  we 
will. 

'*  He  is  not  dead  :  he  lives.  He  has  left  his  form  behind,  as 
we  might  leave  our  garments ;  but  he  himself  now  stands  among 
the  redeemed. 

"This  is  the  glory  of  the  religion  of  Christ,  that  little  children 
may  know  him,  and  feel  his  love  in  life  and  in  death.  He 
invited  them  to  him.  He  said  that  heaven  was  made  up  of 
such — '  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.'  And  who  is  fit  for 
neaven,  if  Marcus  is  not  1 

"  He  is  in  light  and  life  eternal,  while  we  are  in  darkness  and 
death.  He  looks  down  upon  our  grief  from  heaven.  We  may 
all  meet  him,  if  we  will." 

Well  did  Cineas  remember  these  words,  simple  but  soul-felt, 
expressing  thai  which  sustained  her  and  gave  her  peace ;  but 
better  yet  did  he  remember  those  words  in  which  she  expressed 
her  own  faith,  by  which  she  clung  to  him  whom  she  called  her 
God  and  her  Redeemer  : — 

"He  is  truth,"  said  she,  in  those  words  which  Cineas  had 
never  forgotten ;  "  he  is  truth.  Seek  him,  and  you  will  find 
peace. 

"  He  is  the  only  one  worth  seeking  after.  Find  him,  and 
you  gain  immortality.  He  gives  eternal  life  with  himself  in 
heaven. 

"  O  Cineas,  you  have  learned  all  that  philosophy  can  ever 
tell  you  J  but  there  is  something  which  you  do  not  know,  and 
you  feel  the  need  of  it.  You  crave  it.  I  have  found  it  all  in 
the  religion  of  Christ. 

"  You  know  all  about  God  except  one  thing,  and  that  one 
thing  you  can  never  find  out  except  from  Christ.  It  is  the  one 
thing  that  he  teaches.  I  knew  all  else  before  :  I  only  learned 
from  him  this  one  thing — it  is,  that  God  loves  me.  For  I 
know  it — I  know  it ;  and  I  love  him  who  first  loved  me. 

"  He  takes  away  all  fear.     Can  I  fear  to  die  1    He  before 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW. 


395 


before 


whom  I  must  a^->pear  is  my  Saviour,  my  Redeemer.  He  loves 
me,  and  I  love  him.  I  shall  see  him,  and  shall  dwell  in  his 
presence  for  ever. 

"  Cineas,  philosophy  cm  give  courage  in  the  face  of  death 
to  a  philosopher,  and  make  him  die  calmly ;  but  Christ  can  take 
away  all  fear  of  death  from  weak  women  and  from  little  children. 
It  is  his  love  that  does  this. 

"  And  now  my  soul  clings  to  him.  He  supports  me.  I  love 
him,  and  have  no  fear.  Oh,  that  you  had  this  love  !  You  would 
then  know  that  all  you  seek  is  found  in  him." 

All  these  words,  often  recalled,  gave  to  Cineas  a  deep  longing 
to  feel  their  meaning  as  Helena  had  felt  it. 

He  still  cherished  that  manuscript  which  she  had  lent  him 
as  some  precious  memorial  of  her.  He  had  often  read  it  in 
former  days.     Now,  in  his  gloom,  he  turned  to  it  once  more. 

He  read  it  aloud ;  and  Labeo,  too,  heard  ihe  story  of  the 
Divine  One.  He  was  not  unaffected  by  the  sorrows  of  that 
mysterious  Being. 

Cineas  was  changed  from  his  former  self.  His  old  self-com- 
placency had  completely  gone.  That  conceit,  that  reliance  on 
himself,  on  his  shrewdness  and  penetration,  on  his  learning  and 
genius,  had  all  been  crushed  out  of  him.  He  began  to  doubt 
himself.  He  began  to  suspect  that  he  must  have  been  foolish 
when  he  once  believed  that  he  was  wise.  All  this  humbled 
him.  He  felt  that  he  was,  after  all,  a  poor,  weak  mortal,  who, 
in  the  true  trial  of  life,  the  furnace  of  affliction,  was  no  better 
than  the  common  peasant  whom  he  once  so  despised. 

The  One  of  whom  he  read  seemed  to  be  the  truly  wise. 

Had  he  not  need  to  come  to  him  1  Had  he  no  sin  to  be 
pardoned]  This  was  the  question  that  came  to  him — sin. 
Looking  back  now  on  the  past,  and  looking  in  upon  his  own 
heart,  he  saw  himself  in  a  very  different  light.  He  had  ceased 
to  believe  in  himself.  The  current  of  his  feelings  had  changed. 
He  began  to  see  himself  as  he  was.     All  his  life  he  had  thought 


I:. 


1 
I 


W 


39<> 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW. 


that  he  was  following  the  Socratic  maxim,  "Know  thyself!" 
lUit  he  felt  that  he  had  never  begun  to  know  himself  till  now. 
Now  all  his  fond  self-love,  his  perfect  self-satisfaction,  his  false 
assumption  of  wisdom  and  of  philosophic  fairness,  his  real  weak- 
ness and  folly,  all  these  appeared  before  him. 

When  he  thought  how  long  he  had  held  aloof  from  the  One 
of  whom  he  read,  he  began  to  fear  that  this  offended  One  would 
now  refuse  to  listen  to  him.  Out  of  this  dread  came  great 
sorrow. 

"Oh,  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find  him  !"  This  became 
his  feeling.  Above  all  else  he  wished  to  know  him  as  Helena 
knew  hin»  —to  go  to  him,  and  so  gain  rest  for  his  soul. 

Labeo  had  his  own  thoughts,  which  he  kept  to  himself. 

But  there  came  over  him  a  great  change,  which  Cineas  could 
not  help  seeing.  His  despair  passed  away,  the  stern  fixity  of 
his  f^rief  relaxed.  At  last  one  day  he  touched  upon  a  subject 
thus  far  sacred,  and  for  the  first  time  mentioned  the  name  of 
his  son. 

"  Cineas,  I  know  not  what  you  find  in  that  book,  but  it  seems 
to  me  like  a  voice  from  heaven.  Once  I  could  not  have  felt 
thus,  but  I  am  much  changed  from  my  former  self. 

"  Cineas,  my  friend,  my  brother,"  said  Labeo,  and  as  he 
spoke  he  took  the  hand  of  the  other,  and  held  it  almost  con- 
vulsively. "  Listen  to  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  is  in  my 
heart. 

"  Cineas,  do  you  remember  the  words  which  he  said  to  me  1 
Do  you  remember  ?  Do  you  recall  the  time  when  once  I  tried 
to  kill  myself  and  I  heard  the  voice  of  Marcus, — 

"  '  Father,  we  will  meet  again  1 ' 

"  Cineas,  those  words  have  never  ceased  to  be  sounded  in 
my  ears  since  he  left  me.  *  Father,  I  will  be  there  first.' 
'  Father,  we  will  meet  again.' 

"  It  was  not  only  his  words,  but  his  voice,  with  that  unut- 
terable fondness  that  he  always  expressed  when  he  spoke  to  me. 


rilE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW. 


397 


"  Cineas,  that  voice  has  attended  me  everywhere.  I  have 
heard  it  in  my  tent  at  night,  on  the  march,  in  the  battle,  always. 
I  have  heard  it  in  my  dreams. 

"  Oh,  my  friend  and  my  brother,  what  is  this  voice  1  It  is 
like  that  divine  voice  of  which  Socrates  used  to  speak.  It  turns 
me  from  evil.     Will  it  not  lead  me  to  good ' 

"  For  when  I  hear  you  read  that  book,  I  find  out  what  I 
am.  There  is  sin  in  me.  Will  this  One  of  whom  you  read,  and 
whom  Marcus  loved,  will  he  look  upon  one  like  me  ] " 

Cineas  said  nothing.  Tears  fell  from  his  eyes.  He  pressed 
the  hand  of  Labeo,  and  pointed  to  the  book. 

"  Yes,  yes,  dear  friend.  You  can  tell  me  nothing.  We  both 
seek  the  same  One.  Let  us  study  it  together.  Let  us  be  boys 
again,  and  sit  at  the  feet  of  that  *  Master '  of  whom  we  have 
been  reading  there." 

Under  the  influence  of  these  new  desires,  life  became  changed. 
The  two  friends  had  an  object  before  them,  a  search,  an  aim  as 
high  as  heaven. 

Labeo  felt  the  effects  of  this.  His  recovery  to  health  became 
rapid,  and  soon  he  was  fully  restored. 

Then  they  departed  to  Ptolemais,  and  after  that  to  Caesarea. 

Here  they  heard  of  the  astounding  events  which  had  occurred 
at  Rome.  In  their  secluded  village  they  had  been  ignorant  of 
everything. 

Nero  was  dead.  Galba  was  dead.  Otho  had  followed.  A 
fourth  was  now  on  the  throne — Vitellius. 

The  war  in  Judea  was  suspended,  for  the  soldiers  had  before 
them  other  aims.  They  were  not  willing  that  the  empire  of  the 
world  should  be  tossed  backward  and  forward  from  one  general 
to  another  by  the  armies  of  the  West.  They  thought  that  the 
armies  of  the  East  should  have  something  to  say. 

On  Cineas'  arrival,  he  found  that  some  months  previously  an 
order  had  come  for  his  arrest.  The  arrest  had  not  been  made, 
partly  on  account  of  his  retired  position,  and  partly  on  account 


%'■' 


■^  % 


i 


398 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW. 


of  Nero's  death.  Yet  Cineas  on  no  account  wished  to  have 
this  impending  over  him.  He  therefore  sought  an  interview 
with  Vespasian,  and  asked  his  interference.  This  Vespasian  at 
once  granted,  and  took  it  upon  himself  to  destroy  the  imperial 
warrant. 

Vespasian  himself  was  soon  to  issue  imperial  warrants.  The 
army  saw  in  him  the  fittest  claimant  to  the  throne  of  the  world. 
The  great  general  turned  from  Judea  to  Rome,  and  after 
securing  his  affairs  in  the  East,  he  sailed  to  Italy.  There  a 
short  time  only  intervened  between  his  arrival  and  his  attain- 
ment of  imperial  power.  ^ 

Meantime,  Cineas  and  Labeo  waited  in  Ceesarea. 


r^'^'^.f  X 


XXXVIII. 


I  i 


^Igt  Jfall  of  lirtrsalem. 


jT  last  Vespasian  was  secure  on  the  throne  of  the 
world.  The  Roman  armies  had  leisure  to  renew 
their  conquests  in  all  directions,  and  Titus  hastened 
to  make  an  end  of  the  war  in  Judea. 

Jerusalem  was  the  grand  point  of  attack.  All  the  struggle 
centred  around  this.  All  other  strongholds  had  been  captured, 
or  rendered  useless ;  but  there  yet  remained  the  greatest  strong- 
hold of  all,  mighty  by  situation,  but  to  the  Jews  mightier  still 
from  the  favour  of  the  Most  High. 

Backward  and  still  backward  the  Jewish  armies  had  been 
driven,  till  at  last  they  had  all  sought  the  common  centre.  But 
Jerusalem  had  to  receive  many  others,  who  came  and  demanded 
admittance.  The  solemn  festival  of  the  Passover  arrived,  and 
the  tribes  came  up  to  celebrate  it.  Multitudes  thronged  there, 
not  teirified  by  the  danger  of  the  time,  and  not  thinking  of  evil. 
They  came  to  follow  the  customs  of  their  ancestors,  and  com- 
memorate the  deliverance  from  Egypt.  More  than  two  millions 
of  people  filled  the  narrow  streets  of  the  Holy  City,  and  crowded 
themselves  within  its  walls,  living  in  huts  or  in  temporary 
shelters,  and  expecting  in  a  few  days  to  return  to  their  homes. 

But  to  these  people,  thus  crowded  together,  there  came  the 
news  of  the  advance  of  the  Romans,  At  first  they  were  afraid 
to  leave,  for  fear  of  the  enemy ;  at  last  they  could  not  leave,  for 
the  enemy  stood  before  their  eyes. 


r: 


400 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


The  enemy  long  dreaded  appeared  at  last.  There,  on  that 
side  of  the  city  where  the  ground  was  less  precipitous,  where 
Bezetha  lay,  the  Roman  armies  prepared  to  make  their  camp. 

If  Jerusalem  had  been  as  it  once  was,  with  order  and  law 
supreme,  then  it  might  have  baffled  even  the  genius  of  Titus, 
and  the  armies  of  Rome,  liut  order  and  law  had  long  since 
departed.  In  the  fury  of  popular  excitement  all  government 
had  become  impossible,  the  city  became  a  prey  to  madness  and 
fanaticism.  Anarchy  ruled  supreme,  the  most  venerable  offices 
were  trampled  in  the  dust,  and  the  time-honoured  dignity  of 
High  Priest  had  been  bestowed  by  an  unruly  mob  upon  an 
ignorant  rustic.  The  Romans  had  been  driven  from  the  city, 
but  in  their  place  there  came  those  who  were  far  worse  than  the 
Romans — men;  who  sought  to  make  use  of  the  miseries  of  their 
country  for  their  own  advancement,  and  filled  the  city  with  the 
carnage  of  civil  war  when  the  enemy  was  at  their  gates. 

Jerusalem  had  more  than  the  Romans  to  encounter.  It 
fought  with  its  own  self. 

Within  the  walls  were  three  rival  camps,  and  three  hostile 
armies.  Eleazer  held  the  temple,  John  the  upper  city,  and 
Simon  the  lower.  These  three  fought  incessantly  among  them- 
selves, with  a  persevering  valour  and  an  obstinate  ferocity  that 
might  have  secured  triumph  to  the  nation,  if  they  had  been 
directed  against  the  common  enemy. 

Incessant  war  was  waged  between  these  three  leaders  and 
their  followers.  No  plan  of  defence  against  the  Romans  was 
possible.  The  city  was  the  prey  of  these  contending  factions. 
The  wretched  people  had  to  suffer  from  the  violence  of  these 
miscreants.  The  contending  parties,  in  their  fury,  thought  of 
nothing  and  spared  nothing.  Their  madness  reached  its  height 
when  in  some  of  their  contests  the  storehouses  where  the  sup- 
plies of  grain  were  kept  caught  fire,  and  the  hope  of  sustenance 
for  Jerusalem  perished  in  that  flame. 

It  was  to  such  a  place  as  this  that  Isaac  came,  after  Cineas 


r- 

1 

- 

har!  oivi»n 

r//^  FALL  OF  'JERUSALEM. 
him  his  frecflom.     He  found  his  countrvm 

401 
en  eniovinor 

the  respite  which  was  given  by  the  departure  of  Vespasian  to 
Italy.  He  found  the  city  full  of  dissensions,  filled  with  the 
desperadoes  of  the  whole  country,  who  had  come  here  less  for 
safety  than  for  ambition  or  plunder.  He  saw  men  whom  he 
loathed  and  despised  filling  the  highest  place ;  he  saw  the  city 
split  up  into  factions,  when  union  was  the  most  needful  thing ; 
he  saw  these  factions  wasting  away  the  strength  of  Israel,  and 
found  none  who  were  willing  or  able  to  listen  to  the  voice  of 
reason. 

For  faction  was  in  the  ascendant,  and  patriotism  was  lost 
sight  of.  Simon  and  John  had  their  followers,  who  were  de- 
voted to  them.  The  rest  of  the  people  stood  by  helpless,  a 
prey  to  both.  The  city  was  filled  with  lawlessness  and  con- 
fusion. Divided  against  itself,  it  awaited  the  mighty  army  of 
Rome. 

Such  things  as  these  filled  Isaac  with  bitterness.  He  tried 
to  do  all  that  might  be  done  by  one  honest  and  fervid  soul. 
There  were  times  when  his  fiery  words  produced  some  effect, 
but  generally  those  to  whom  he  spoke  had  other  interests.  He 
could  do  nothing  with  the  followe-s  of  Simon,  and  the  rest  ot 
the  people  were  helpless.  There  was,  indeed,  one  thing  which 
he  might  have  easily  done.  He  might  have  roused  the  people 
of  Bezetha  against  the  tyranny  of  Simon,  and  led  them  against 
him.  Perhaps  he  might  have  cast  out  this  man ;  perhaps  he 
might  have  gone  further,  and  cast  out  John.  But  this  was  a 
thing  which  Isaac  never  thought  of  attempting.  He  was  not 
the  man  to  add  to  the  distress  of  the  city  by  raising  a  fourth 
faction.  He  rather  sought  to  conciliate,  to  proclaim  more  fully 
the  old  belief  in  the  coming  of  the  Messiah ;  to  exhort  all  men 
to  union  for  his  sake,  so  that  when  he  came  they  might  be  found 
watching. 

But  Isaac's  efforts  after  unity  and  peace  and  faith  were  all  in 

vain.     There  seemed  a  strange  perversity  among  the  people, 
(188)  a6 


,: 


I' 


M:^ 


40a 


THE  FALL  O.^  JERUSALEM. 


and  honest  men  were  few,  and  the  zealot  and  crazed  fanatic 
had  all  the  control  of  affairs.  It  was  hard  for  Isaac  to  main- 
tain that  firm  faith  which  he  had  always  cherished  hitherto. 
The  struggle  between  faith  and  despair  was  terrible.  Reason 
showed  him  that  the  city  was  doomed  ;  it  showed  no  possible 
prospect  of  escape ;  faith  tried  but  feebly  to  cling  to  its  old 
belief.  The  face  of  the  God  of  Israel  seemed  averted,  and  it 
was  hard  to  think  that  he  yet  intended  to  save  the  chosen 
people.  But  it  was  harder  yet  to  think  that  after  all  his  pro- 
mises, the  chosen  people  could  be  destroyed.  This  was  the 
struggle  in  the  mind  of  Isaac,  and  the  struggle  filled  him  with 
agony.  He  tried  to  look  on  all  the  horrors  around  him  as  the 
punishment  of  national  sin.  But  punishment,  when  it  came 
from  God,  was  chastening  in  its  effect,  and  Isaac  saw  that  there 
was  no  purifying  or  chastening  here.  It  rather  looked  like  that 
madness  which  precedes  destruction,  like  the  breaking  up  of 
national  life,  like  the  ruin  and  the  death  of  Israel. 

All  the  circumstances  around  tended  to  deepen  his  despair. 
On  the  day  on  which  he  entered  the  city  he  saw  a  figure  on 
the  walls — a  gaunt,  emaciated  being,  who  looked  like  one  of  the 
old  Hebrew  prophets,  but  fierce  and  v/ild,  with  a  fiery  eye  that 
grazed  evermore  on  vacancy,  an-'  a  crazed  brain.  He  had  only 
one  word,  only  one  utterance,  and  that  he  never  ceased  to 
repeat.  Upon  Isaac  these  words,  then  heard  by  him  for  the 
first  time,  produced  an  awful  dre^d,  filling  his  mind  with  fore- 
bodings of  that  on  which  he  dared  not  let  his  thoughts  dwell, 
sending  through  all  his  frame  a  thrill  of  horror. 

This  was  what  the  wild  prophet  said  as  he  strode  along  the 
walls,  the  place  which  he  chose  to  frequent,  roaring  out  his 
fearful  words  in  a  hoarse  and  terrible  voice,  with  one  monoton- 
ous tone  that  never  varied  •. — 

"  A  voice  from  the  East ! 
A  voice  from  the  West ! 
A  voice  from  the  four  A-inds  ! 
A  voice  against  Jerusalem,  and  the  Holy  Hous*  I 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM.  403 

A  voice  against  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride ! 
A  voice  against  the  whole  people  ! 
Woe  to  Jerusalem ! 
Woe,  woe,  to  Jerusalem  ! " 

Isaac  had  heard  of  this  man  before.  The  people  had  become 
famihar  with  his  cry.  For  seven  years  he  had  shouted  it  over 
all  Judea.  He  had  been  scourged  and  tortured,  and  punished 
in  all  possible  ways.  In  vain.  He  uttered  nothing  but  his  cry 
of  "Woe  to  Jerusalem  !"  and  still  by  night  and  by  day  the  same 
cry  sounded, — "Woe,  woe  to  Jerusalem  !" 

Though  most  of  the  people  had  grown  familiar  with  this 
man,  and  looked  upon  his  cry  as  the  utterance  of  a  poor,  harm- 
less idiot,  his  words  produced  a  different  effect  upon  those  who 
heard  them  for  the  first  time.  They  came  to  Isaac  with  a  fear- 
ful meaning,  and  sounded  like  the  utterance  of  a  prophet  of 
God. 

Other  horrors  were  not  wanting.  On  the  night  wher^.  Isaac 
first  entered,  as  he  walked  sadly  about  among  the  throng,  he 
noticed  that  all  were  looking  up  to  the  skies  with  faces  of  fear. 
He  looked  there,  and  the  fear  of  all  was  communicated  to  his 
own  heart.  There,  in  the  midst  of  the  heavens,  he  beheld  the 
outline  of  a  comet,  shaped  like  a  sword,  which  seemed  to  point 
to  the  city,  and  promise  ruin.  At  first  there  was  nothing  but 
panic.  Night  succeeded  to  nijrht,  and  the  awful  form  grew 
larger  and  more  vivid,  burning  fiery  red  in  the  black  sky, 
extending  from  the  horizon  to  the  zenith,  wrathful  and  men- 
acing.    What  meant  this  ]    Was  it  indeed  the  herald  of  ruin  % 

Isaac,  in  his  passionate  love  for  Israel  and  in  his  strong  faith 
in  the  God  of  Israel,  after  the  first  panic  had  subsided,  refused 
to  look  upon  that  sign  with  fear. 

"  No,"  he  cried,  and  he  harangued  the  people  everywhere, 
"  no,  it  is  not  a  sign  of  terror,  but  of  hope.  It  is  the  promise 
of  the  Deliverer,  For  how  must  Israel  be  delivered  \  As  she 
always  has  been — by  the  sword.  Net,  however,  by  a  human 
sword,  but  by  the  sword  of  that  heavenly  One. who  now  places 


it'  I 


404 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


it  there  before  our  eyes,  among  the  stars,  to  tell  us  that  he  is 
faithful.     Let  us  prepare  for  him.     He  is  coming ! 

"  Our  eyes  behold  the  manifest  glory  of  his  coming.  Alleluia ! 
Praised  be  his  name  ! " 

And  the  impassioned  words  of  Isaac,  the  utterance  of  a  faith 
that  for  a  moment  burst  through  the  gloom  of  despair,  and 
clung  to  heaven  and  to  hope,  fired  the  hearts  of  the  people. 
They  too  would  hope  and  believe  and  praise.  They  took  up 
his  cry,  and  ten  thousand  voices  shouted,  "  Alleluia  !" 

But  t  e  people,  in  their  fu;y  and  excitement,  could  not  always 
cherish  hope.  Their  feelings  alternated.  Hope  turned  to 
despair.  Panics  ran  among  them.  Men's  minds  became  dis- 
ordered. Visions  appeared  in  the  air ;  shapes  glided  through 
the  gloom  ;  sounds  of  no  mortal  nature  seemed  to  strike  upon 
the  disordered  senses  of  many. 

Ten  thousand  rumours  every  day  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  filling  all  with  supernatural  dread.  Brilliant  lights 
glowed  about  the  temple ;  one  of  the  gates  opened  of  its  own 
accord  ;  prodigy  succeeded  prodigy,  and  each  created  fear  or 
hope :  and  thus  faith  and  despair,  joy  and  terror,  incessantly 
alternated,  till  men  believed  anything  or  everything,  and  the 
senses  of  all  became  influenced  by  one  sympathetic  excitement; 
till  the  pctents  that  rose  before  the  imagination  of  one  were 
visible  to  all,  till  whole  crowds  could  look  up  in  the  skies,  and 
see  in  the  air  embattled  hosts  and  chariots  and  armies,  and 
hear  the  noise  of  battles  and  the  thunder  of  the  war. 

Thus  the  Romans  came  to  such  a  city  in  such  a  state.  When 
the  glittering  files  of  the  Roman  legions  first  appeared,  the 
people  had  no  feai .  They  believed  that  in  this  way  the  enemies 
of  Israel  were  brought  before  Jerusalem  that  all  might  be  de- 
stroyed, and  the  Most  High  avenge  his  chosen  ones.  God's 
people  were  brought  face  to  face  with  their  enemies,  and  the 
end  would  be  the  complice  destruction  of  those  enemies. 

This  Isaac  proclaimed,  seeking  to  free  the  hearts  of  all,  and 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


405 


hoping  that  if  the  Romans  sat  down  to  the  siege  the  internal 
disunion  might  cease.  The  appearance  of  the  hostile  armies 
gave  him  nothing  but  hope  and  comfort.  Faction,  as  he  thought, 
must  die  out  in  the  presence  of  war. 

The  Romans  began  to  form  their  camp  on  the  only  side  on 
which  a  siege  was  possible,  the  lower  city.  Here  between 
them  and  the  upper  city  there  lay  three  massive  walls,  each 
surrounding  a  separate  district;  but  these  walls  on  this  side 
were  tlie  only  ones  that  could  be  assailed  by  Roman  engines. 
On  the  other  side  were  precipices. 

But  as  the  Romans  began  to  stat'on  themselves  and  entrench 
th<;ir  camp,  the  Jews  were  not  idle.  At  the  first  sight  of  the 
enemy,  who  thus  came  before  the  Holy  City  with  arms  and 
engines,  a  fury  passed  through  all  the  fandtical  people. 

Isaac  saw  in  tliis  the  best  time  for  action — a  time  when  the 
Romans  might  be  attacked  with  the  violence  of  a  surprise,  and 
when  Jewish  >/arriors  could  exert  themselves  in  that  sudden 
and  impetuous  onset  for  which  they  were  famous. 

He  himself  had  become  celebrated  for  his  own  exploits,  and 
particularly  that  at  Jotapata.  Great  numbers  knew  him  well, 
and  followed  him  wherever  he  led.  Living  in  the  quarter 
Bezetha,  which  he  knew  would  be  first  attacked,  he  determined 
for  his  part  to  devote  himself  toward  the  task  of  beating  back 
tlie  enemy,  hoping  that  the  internal  factions  at  last  would  fall 
to  pieces. 

Now  came  his  first  opportunity,  and,  with  fiery  words  and 
dashing  eyes  and  vehement  gesticulations,  he  went  round 
summoning  all  to  follow  him.  An  immense  multitude  prepared 
to  obey. 

The  Romans  were  working  at  their  entrenchments.  The 
tenth  legion  lay  nearest. 

Suddenly  the  gates  were  thrown  open,  and  there  rushed  forth 
an  innumerable  multitude. 

Forming  themselves  on  the  plain,  the  first  men  that  came 


t  S\   % 


V.     W 


,;  i 


m 

n 


i| 


4o6 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


V 


out,  chosen  for  their  valour  and  strength,  advanced  upon  the 
Romans.  Behind  them  came  others  in  vast  throngs,  some 
orderly,  others  in  confusion,  but  all  rushing  forward  till  the 
whole  space  grew  black  with  human  beings,  and  still  the  gates 
sent  forth  undiminished  crowds.  For  the  cry  of  that  attack 
passed  through  the  city,  and  all  took  part ;  and  men  who  had 
never  seen  or  heard  of  Isaac  now  hurried  out  to  attack  the 
hated  enemy. 

At  the  head  of  all  Isaac  marched. 

The  Romans  had  not  had  time  to  make  their  trench.  The 
plain  was  open.  With  their  usual  resolution,  and  with  some- 
thing like  contempt  for  the  multitude  before  them,  they  formed 
their  line  of  battle,  and  awaited  the  onset. 

It  came,     i 

With  a  cry  that  rose  like  long  successive  peals  of  thunder  into 
the  skies,  and  echoed  among  the  surrounding  heights,  till  ils 
long  reverberations  were  borne  over  all  the  city,  and  over  all 
the  Roman  camps,  the  Jews  rushed  upon  their  enemies. 

The  Romans  had  already  learned  the  desperation  of  the 
Jews,  and  their  fury  in  attack ;  but  they  had  never  known  any- 
thing like  this.  For  here  the  Jews  came  in  hosts  that  were 
overwhelming,  with  a  fury  that  was  appalling.  True  to  their 
discipline,  the  Romans  formed  their  ranks  with  spear  and 
shield,  and  withstood  the  first  rush.  But  the  Jews  cared 
nothing  for  spear  and  shield.  Each  man,  in  his  frenzy,  thought 
nothing  of  death,  nothing  of  himself,  but  was  eager  to  fling  his 
body  upon  the  point  of  hostile  spears,  that  so  he  might  break 
their  well-ordered  lines,  and  force  a  way  for  his  fellows. 

The  Romans  stood  firm  for  a  time.  The  first  rush  was  re- 
pelled, and  the  second,  and  the  third.  But  the  Jews  only 
recoiled  to  rush  forward  once  more,  and  each  time  the  rush 
was  more  tremendous,  since  it  carried  within  itself  the  ac- 
celerated impulse  that  arose  froni  the  increasing  numbers  that 
still  rushed  forward,  and  lent  the  force  of  their  impetus  to  the 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


407 


onset  of  the  lines  in  front.  At  last,  at  one  mad  onset  of  the 
Jews,  the  centre  of  the  Roman  line  fell  back  a  little.  Hun- 
dreds of  Jews  flung  themselves  there.  Isaac  snatched  a  Roman 
eagle,  and  shouted  to  his  men.  They  rushed  onward  with  new 
fervour.  The  Roman  line  was  broken,  and  in  an  instant  a  vast 
array  of  Jews  poured  through  the  space,  and  wound  around  the 
enemy,  and  assailed  them  in  front  and  in  the  rear. 

Now  this  was  the  characteristic  of  the  Jews,  that  their  fury 
remained  undiminished,  but  rather  increased  as  the  fight  went 
on.  The  Romans  lost  heart.  They  were  awed  by  the  fierce- 
ness of  their  enemies.  They  were  discouraged  and  terrified  by 
the  break  of  their  lines.  They  found  themselves  assailed  on  all 
sides.  They  could  no  longer  stand  their  ground.  They  fell 
back.  They  retreated.  Panic  came  over  them,  and  they  fled 
in  all  directions,  while  the  Jews  pursued,  with  Isaac  at  their 
head,  bearing  the  captured  eagle. 

"  Alleluia !  God  hath  given  us  the  victory !  The  God  of 
Israel  is  fighting  for  us  !" 

Such  was  the  cry  that  rang  out  amid  the  thunder  of  the  fight, 
and  the  Jews  now  fully  beHeved  that  the  hour  of  their  redemp- 
tion had  come,  and  that  their  enemies  were  in  their  power. 

But  it  was  only  one  legion  that  had  been  driven  back. 
Others  remained,  firm  in  discipline,  not  over-awed,  nor 
terrified. 

Behind  the  tenth  legion  was  that  of  Labeo.  The  soldiers 
had  become  familiar  with  Jewish  attacks,  and  had  been  tested 
in  the  fiercest  conflicts.  The  thunder  of  the  fight  had  roused 
them  all,  and  Labeo  had  formed  his  men;  and  as  the  tenth 
legion  fled,  and  the  Jews  pursued,  the  soldiers  of  Labeo  came 
marching  forward  to  renew  the  fight. 

All  the  Roman  army  was  on  the  alert.  Titus  himself  had 
ordered  up  all  his  men  to  restore  the  fight.  Legion  after  legion 
was  roused,  and  advanced  to  the  front. 

But  the  onset  of  the  Jews,  accelerated  by  the  flush  of  victory, 


''1i 


i'   fl ! 


i!;;: 


(Ill 

'ih 


\\ 


i: 


4o8 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSAI,EM. 


and  belief  in  the  presence  of  the  God  of  Israel,  could  not  easily 
be  checked. 

The  men  of  Labeo  stopped  in  their  advance  before  the  suc- 
cessive waves  of  that  attack. 

In  front  of  them  raged  an  awful  conflict.  The  Jews  still 
flung  themselves  upon  the  spears  of  the  enemy,  content  if  by 
death  they  could  open  a  way  to  others,  and  behind  those  who 
fell  others  advanced  furiously,  frantically,  and  the  air  was  filled 
with  yells,  like  those  of  madmen. 

The  Jews  fell  by  hundreds  and  by  thousands,  but  the  Romans 
fell  also,  and  it  r/as  with  difficulty  that  their  rigid  lines  could  be 
maintained,  or  the  living  close  up  so  as  to  fill  the  place  of  those 
who  had  fallen. 

At  last  the  Romans  wavered.  In  vain  Labeo  tried  to  sustain 
his  men.  The  fury  of  the  attack,  so  sustained,  and  with  such 
freshness,  was  too  much  for  them.  He  stood  at  the  head  of  his 
men,  and  freely  exposed  his  life ;  he  called  on  them  by  all  that 
they  valued  most  highly  to  stand  firm.  Cineas,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  line,  devoted  himself  with  that  heroism  which  he 
had  always  shown.  But  the  Romans  yielded  ground,  and 
though  their  lines  remained  unbroken,  still  they  were  forced 
back — step  by  step,  it  is  true,  but  the  very  fact  of  retreating 
served  to  discourage  them. 

Backward  and  still  backward  they  found  themselves  forced. 
'  In  the  midst  of  the  fight  Cineas  recognized  loaac,  who  still 
headed  his  men,  and  held  aloft  the  captured  eagle,  and  though 
in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  seemed  yet  to  bear  a  charmed  life, 
for  of  all  the  blows  aimed  at  him  none  took  effect.  All  around 
him  his  men  fell,  but  still  Isaac  fought  and  called  on  his  men. 
and  his  cry  rang  out  sharp  and  clear, — 

"  Alleluia !  for  the  God  of  Israel  is  here ! " 

Then  Cineas  thought  that  he  had  done  all  this  by  setting 
Isaac  free,  and  it  was  with  bitterness  that  he  reproached  him- 
self. 


TITE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


40$ 


Legion  after  legion  came  up.  Titus  was  in  the  midst  of  his 
soldiers,  calling  on  them  to  stand,  to  advance,  to  take  vengeance 
on  these  contemptible  Jews,  whom  they  had  so  often  conquered. 
And  some  stood  firm ;  but  in  the  centre  of  the  fight,  where  the 
battle  was  fiercest,  there  they  fell  back. 

In  their  retreat  they  were  pressed  to  the  side  of  a  declivity, 
up  which  they  were  forced.  Here  the  soldiers  could  see  the 
full  extent  of  the  force  that  assailed  them.  Between  them  and 
the  city  the  plain  was  black  with  human  beings,  all  rushing 
forward.     The  sight  filled  them  with  awe. 

Still  they  retreated. 

Cineas,  in  his  despair,  had  rushed  over  to  Labeo,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  the  fight,  the  two  friends  took  a  hasty  counsel  as  to 
what  might  be  done.  Far  and  wide  the  battle  raged.  They 
saw  the  Romans  falling  back,  pressed  hard  by  their  fiery 
foe. 

They  saw,  however,  that  the  fight  was  all  in  front ;  that  the 
Jews  were  undisciplined,  and  gained  the  advantage  by  brute 
strength  and  reckless  devotion  rather  than  by  anything  like 
strategy. 

Theii  flanks  and  their  rear  were  all  exposed.  It  needed  but 
an  instant  to  make  all  this  plain. 

By  a  dexteious  movement,  Labeo  disengaged  his  men  from 
the  fight,  and,  falling  backward,  he  moved  rapidly  over  the  hill- 
slope  toward  the  left.  The  Jews  rushed  forward,  some  still 
assailing  his  legion,  others  seelJng  to  enclose  the  other  Romans. 
But  Labeo  led  his  men  rapidly  onward  for  the  space  of  about 
half  a  mile,  and  then  with  a  shout  his  soldiers  fell  upon  the 
flank  of  the  Jewish  host. 

Before  the  rush  of  that  solid  body  of  men  everything  gave 
way.  The  Jews  were  not  prepared  for  an  attack  in  that  quarter. 
They  turned  to  encounter  it,  but  in  vain.  Their  devotion,  their 
recklessness,  was  as  great  as  before,  but  they  had  not  the  same 
advantage.     In  front  the  pressure  was  all  one  way,  and  those 


*  \\\ 


;  II 


u 


410 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


f 


Mf 


;ii 


behind  urged  forward  those  in  front.     Here  all  was  confused 
and  disorganized. 

The  Romans  swept  the  Jews  before  them  helplessly. 

They  marched  right  across  the  entire  field,  and  then  wheeled 
and  attacked  their  enemy  from  behind. 

Enclosed  between  two  hostile  lines,  the  Jews  fell  in  every 
direction.  They  soon  found  out  their  danger.  Now  Roman 
discipline  told  with  fatal  effect  against  their  own  disordered 
crowds.  The  Romans  in  front,  who  had  retreated,  turned  once 
more,  stimulated  by  the  sight  of  their  own  men  in  the  rear  of 
the  enemy. 

The  Jews  were  overpowered. 

Panic  spread  through  them.  They  sought  to  escape.  Only  one 
way  was  possil^le,  and  that  was  toward  a  steep  declivity  that 
lay  on  one  side.  Here  they  were  driven.  They  were  hurled 
down  the  descent  in  dense  masses,  and  the  Romans,  following 
fast  after,  had  all  the  advantage  of  a  more  elevated  position. 

Here,  down  this  declivity,  with  the  Romans  pressing  after 
them,  confused,  disordered,  and  disheartened,  the  Jews  were  all 
crowded  together,  and  scarce  capable  of  resistance.  The  fight 
became  a  massacre. 

Thousands  who  could  disengage  themselves  fled  along  the 
valley  back  to  the  city,  and  were  saved;  but  thousands  fell 
beneath  the  Romans. 

One  band  of  men  there  was  which  did  not  share  the  panic. 
Driven  back,  they  still  fought,  and  sternly  fell  back  toward  the 
gate  from  which  they  had  come.  These  were  the  men  whom 
Isaac  had  led  out. 

In  front  of  them  stood  Isaac,  still,  holding  the  captured 
standard.  In  vain  the  Romans  rushed  upon  these  men,  seeking 
to  recover  their  eagle.  They  were  forced  back  by  the  unquail- 
ing  valour  of  the  Jews.  And  so,  slowly  and  obstinately,  Isaac 
led  back  his  men,  and  the  gates  were  opened  ;  and  if  they  were 
defeated,  they  at  least  had  the  glory  of  the  captured  eagle. 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


411 


Such  was  the  result  of  the  fierce  conflict. 

But  the  Jews  did  not  lose  heart.  Day  after  day  passed,  and 
they  made  new  attacks.  The  Romans  now  had  completed 
their  entrenchments,  and  could  noi  be  so  easily  driven  back. 
Alternate  successes  and  reverses  marked  each  day;  but  the 
Romans  steadily  gained,  and  the  Jews  steadily  lost,  till  at  last 
the  Roman  engines  were  ready  to  be  brought  against  the  walls. 

The  ponderous  engines  of  war  which  formed  the  Roman 
artillery  were  brought  up ;  the  catapults  and  balistas  hurled  their 
javelins  and  stones  upon  the  doomed  city ;  the  battering-ram 
thundered  upon  the  solid  walls. 

Showers  of  stones  and  darts  fell  incessantly.  At  first  the 
enormous  size  of  some  of  these  stones,  and  their  terrific  effect 
when  they  fell  and  crushed  all  before  them,  startled  the  Jews. 
One  engine  there  was  which  threw  a  stone  of  enormous  size. 
When  this  missile  came  roaring  through  the  air,  the  Jews  on  the 
walls  would  give  warning,  and  seek  shelter. 

The  prophet  of  woe  walked  round  the  walls  among  the 
fighting  men,  denouncing  woe  as  before.  Few  regarded  him 
now.  But  a  thing  happened  one  day  which  made  many  re- 
gard both  him  and  his  prophecy. 

As  he  walked  along  the  walls  he  suddenly  stopped  and  re- 
peated his  ill-omened  cry, — 

"  Woe  to  Jerusalem  I 
Woe,  woe  to  Jerusalem !" 

He  paused  for  a  moment. 

"  The  rock  is  coming  I "  cried  the  Jewish  soldiers,  as  they  saw 
the  flight  of  the  huge  missile  mentioned  before. 
All  the  soldiers  rushed  in  different  directions  for  safety. 
The  prophet  stood  still. 
Then  his  voice  rang  out  with  terrible  emphasis, — 

"Woe  to  Jerusale""  ! 
Woe,  woe  to  Jerusalem ! 
Woi-  to  myself ! 
Woe,  woe  to  myself  1 " 


I 

I. 


II   't    1 


III 

F 


m 


'•%     i 


ili 


I*  S;, 


4" 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


% 


The  enormous  stone  rushed  through  the  air.  It  struck  the 
speaker,  and  dashed  him  to  pieces. 

The  voice  of  the  prophet  of  woe  was  heard  no  more,  for  the 
woe  itself  had  come. 

Battering-rams  dashed  against  the  walls,  and  beneath  the 
reiterated  blows  the  massive  erections  trembled.  The  Jews 
were  incessant  in  their  efforts  to  avert  the  danger.  They  made 
bold  sallies.  They  burned  the  rams.  They  drove  back  the 
enemy.  But  over  all  the  mad  assaults  of  the  Jews  the  patient 
firmness  of  Roman  discipline  steadily  triumphed. 

At  last  a  wide  breach  was  made.  The  Romans  rushed  to  the 
attack.  A  terrible  conflict  followed.  The  Romans  entered 
and  fought  their  way  along  the  streets.  The  Jews  fell  back  in 
spite  of  all  their  valour,  and  at  last  took  refuge  in  the  space 
that  was  enclosed  by  the  second  wall,  Akra.  The  lower  city 
was  in  possession  of  the  Romans.  Titus  made  his  camp  in  the 
midst  of  it,  anc"  then  prepared  to  attack  the  second  wall. 

The  Jews  were  disheartened  by  the  capture  of  the  lower  city, 
but  were  not  yet  despairing.  They  thought  that  the  upper  city 
could  yet  protect  them.  They  had  confidence  in  the  massive 
walls  and  in  the  steep  declivities.  The  people  were  encouraged 
by  the  hope  that  the  hour  would  yet  come  when  their  Deliverer 
would  appear.  Among  those  who  sought  by  such  hopes  to 
stimulate  them  to  action,  the  most  prominent  was  Isaac.  "  The 
time  has  not  yet  come,"  he  cried ;  "  God  will  not  come  till  man 
has  done  his  best.  But  at  last,  when  we  can  do  no  more,  then 
will  he  appear." 

And  the  people  took  fresh  courage. 

But  while  the  Romars  were  fighting  from  without,  the  factions 
ceased  not.  The  external  enemy  and  the  common  danger 
could  not  quell  the  fierce  strife  that  raged  within  the  walls.  At 
times  the  two  parties  would  unite ;  but  when  the  immediate 
impulse  had  ceased,  then  they  would  return  to  their  former 
hostility,  and  Simon  and  John  would  renew  their  mad  struggle. 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


413 


Thus  the  city  wasted  its  strength.  Horrors  without  end 
succeeded  each  other  within  the  walls. 

Despair  came  more  and  more  frequently  to  the  heart  of 
Isaac.  His  faith  faltered.  He  could  not  see  the  end  of  this. 
The  capture  of  the  city  he  would  not  believe  in  for  a  moment. 
The  desecration  of  the  Temple  of  God  seemed  incredible,  and 
impossible.     The  Deliverer  must  come — but  when,  alas  1  when  ? 

"  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  I" 

Such  was  the  cry  that  escaped  from  the  despairing  soul  of 
Isaac  as  he  saw  the  horrors  around.  Such  horrors  seemed  too 
great.  Such  horrors  could  not  in  his  mind  be  compensated  for 
even  by  that  final  glory  for  which  he  looked. 

His  only  consolation  was  war.  The  madness  of  the  fight 
could  distract  his  thoughts,  and  he  could  feel  some  satisfaction 
in  beating  back  the  enemies  of  Israel. 

"But,  O  Lord,  how  long!" 

Alas,  he  knew  not  the  full  extent  of  the  agony  that  yet 
awaited  all  within  the  doomed  city. 

Meanwhile,  the  people,  in  the  extremity  of  their  sufferings, 
knew  not  what  to  do.  Many  sought  to  escape.  Large  num- 
bers were  kindly  received  by  Titus,  whose  humanity  was  great, 
and  whose  pity  for  the  wretched  Jews  was  unfaltering.  But 
after  a  time  the  Jews  made  use  of  their  desperate  situation  to 
work  on  the  feelings  of  Titus,  and  entrap  the  Romans  into 
snares.  Many  Romans  had  already  perished  through  their 
own  merciful  feelings.  Such  things  as  these  put  an  end  to  all 
mercy.  No  more  Jews  could  escape.  They  were  shut  up  in 
the  city,  and  exit  was  impossible. 

Titus,  from  his  camp  within  the  enclosure  of  the  lower  city, 
prepared  to  attack  the  second  wall.  His  rams  at  length  made 
a  wide  breach  here,  and  his  eager  soldiers  rushed  into  the 
upper  district. 

At  first  the  Jews  fell  back,  and  allowed  the  Romans  to  pene- 


ill 


If 


!:  1 ''ii 


■S 


U   I.    ^. 


lil 


4H 


77//?  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


r     1    I      : 

I    i;     ' 


trate  to  a  considerable  distance.  Carried  away  by  their  own 
ardour,  the  Romans  marched  through  the  streets,  driving  back 
their  enemies  and  thinking  that  victory  was  theirs.  ' 

Suddenly,  however,  an  immense  multitude  of  Jews  made  an 
attack  upon  them  near  the  broken  wall.  The  breach  had 
remained  as  it  was.  It  had  not  been  widened  so  as  to  admit 
of  a  large  number  entering  at  one  time,  and  those  who  were 
already  within  could  not  readily  be  reinforced.  Here  the  Jews 
made  their  attack.  A  large  body  stood  by  the  breach,  repell- 
ing those  who  sought  to  enter.  Others  fell  upon  the  Romans 
who  were  already  within  the  wall.  Suddenly  every  house 
seemed  filled  with  frenzied  people.  Every  side  street  formed 
an  avenue  for  the  rush  of  some  assailing  force.  The  Romans 
were  surrounded  on  all  sides.  All  around  their  enemies  rushed 
upon  them.  From  the  roofs  of  the  houses  vast  multitudes 
hurled  down  rocks  and  stones,  and  darts  and  fiery  missiles. 

The  Romans  fought  with  their  usual  resolution,  but  they 
were  outnumbered,  and  taken  at  an  enormous  disadvantage. 
They  fell  on  all  sides  before  their  enemies.  All  around  and  all 
above  them  seemed  filled  with  assailants.  The>  sought  to 
retreat,  but  they  were  hemmed  in  among  the  nariv^w  streets, 
and  retreat  was  impossible.  Some  escaped,  but  most  fell  vic- 
tims to  Jewish  vengeance. 

At  one  place  there  stood  a  Roman  otficer,  who,  with  his  back 
to  the  wall,  resisted  for  a  long  time  a  crowd  of  enemies.  His 
long  resistance  at  last  made  him  weary,  and  though  he  still 
fought,  there  was  less  vigour  in  his  blows. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  fiercest  leaders  of  the  Jews  rushed  up  to 
him  with  uplifted  weapon. 

The  Roman  held  up  his  shield  and  prepared  to  fight  this  new 
enemy. 

But  his  enemy  suddenly  dropped  his  spear. 

"Cineas!" 

"  Isaac !" 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


415 


up  to 


The  recognition  was  instantaneous  and  mutual. 

"  Back  I  back  1 "  shouted  Isaac  to  his  followers.  "  This 
man  is  my  prisoner." 

But  his  followers  did  not  seem  very  willing  to  obey.  In  their 
fury  they  rushed  on,  and  in  another  moment  Cineas  would  have 
fallen.  But  as  Cineas  pre.rured  to  defend  himself,  Isaac  threw 
himself  before  him.  , 

**  Back  1 "  he  shouted.  "  The  first  man  that  touches  him 
dies.     He  is  mine." 

There  was  something  in  the  voice  and  attitude  of  Isaac 
which  seemed  to  strike  awe  into  the  crowd.     They  fell  back. 

"This  way,"  cried  Isaac  to  Cineas.  "Quick,  or  you  are 
lost." 

And  he  darted  into  a  door-way.     Cineas  followed. 

Isaac  hurried  up  to  the  house-top,  and  passed  along  several 
roofs.  Once  he  was  stopped ;  but  he  told  the  men  who 
stopped  him  that  Cineas  was  his  prisoner,  whom  he  was  leading 
away.     He  was  then  allowed  to  go  on,  though  reluctandy. 

Then  Isaac  passed  over  many  houses,  down  the  length  of  an 
entire  street.  All  around  there  was  still  the  noise  of  the  con- 
flict, the  triumphant  shouts  of  the  Jews,  mingling  with  the 
groans  of  the  wounded  and  dying. 

At  last  Isaac  reached  a  house,  and  began  to  descend  the 
opening  in  the  roof  Cineas  followed,  and  at  length  found 
himself  in  a  room.  The  house  appeared  to  be  without  inhabit- 
ants. Looking  out  of  the  window,  he  saw  in  the  court-yard  a 
number  of  dead  bodies. 

Isaac  noticed  the  start  which  Cineas  gave  at  the  sight.  For 
the  dead  bodies  were  those  of  women  and  children. 

"They  were  starved  to  death  !"  said  Isaac,  in  a  hoarse  whis- 
per, that  thrilled  through  the  heart  of  Cineas. 

"  Here,"  said  Isaac,  after  a  pause,  "  here  you  are  safe." 

Cineas  said  nothing,  but  stood  looking  at  the  bodies  in  the 
court-yard. 


Ji 


»  t 


416 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALFM. 


:fc 


**  Alas  !"  he  exclaimed  at  last.     "  How  you  are  suftering  !" 

"  Suffering  ! "  said  Isaac  ;  "  it  is  a  suffering  beyond  words — 
beyond  thought." 

"  Why  will  you  not  yield  in  time  ?"  sighed  Cineas. 

"Yield!  never!"  cried  Isaac  with  his  old  vehemence. 
"  Every  Jew  will  die  first.  The  whole  nation  stakes  its  ex- 
istence on  this  fight — the  whole  nation,  men,  women,  and 
children. 

"  There  can  be  only  one  end,"  said  Cineas.  "  Who  can 
withstand  Romel" 

"  The  Jews  have  hopes  of  which  the  Romans  know  nothing." 

"  Hopes  !"  exclaimed  Cineas,  but  said  nothing  more. 

"  Hopes — ay.  More, — belief,  conviction.  We  know  in 
whom  we  believe.  The  God  of  Abraham  will  never  break  his 
covenant.     He  afflicts  us  sorely,  but  he  will  yet  save  us. 

"  Sorely,  sorely  does  he  afflict  us.  Sufferings  have  been  ours 
such  as  men  never  knew  before.  Alas !  Why  is  all  this  1 
Why  is  our  anguish  so  great?  What  have  we  done  against 
thee,  O  thou  Most  High  1 

"  But  yet,  why  do  I  speak  ?  He  has  his  own  purposes.  Per- 
haps the  memory  of  this  anguish  may  hereafter  separate  us 
more  widely  from  the  heathen,  and  make  us  his  own  more  pal- 
pably. But,  O  thou  who  reignest  on  high  !  is  not  this  enough? 
Why  demand  more  1  How  long  must  we  suffer  ?  How  long 
shall  the  enemy  triumph  %    How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  ?" 

"  Titus  is  merciful.  He  feels  for  you/'  said  Cineas.  "  He 
endeavours  to  avert  your  doom.  But  what  can  he  do  if  you 
persist  ?  Can  you  not  return  to  that  old  obedience  to  Rome, 
vvhich,  after  all,  gave  you  so  much  freedom?  Your  Temple 
would  still  be  yours." 

"  To  Rome  !  No.  Never.  Now  has  come  the  time  when 
the  kingdoms  of  this  world  shall  be  given  to  the  Lord  and  to 
his  chosen  people.  By  the  magnitude  of  our  sufferings  you 
may  estimate  the  splendour  of  the  coming  triumph.     Yes,  if 


THE  FALL  OF  'JERUSALEM. 


417 


mere  suffering  is  necessary,  we  can  suffer  more.  We  have  not 
yet  shed  all  our  tears.  We  can  shed  more.  We  can  spare 
more  blood  of  ours.  We  can  do  as  much  as  we  have  done  for 
the  sake  of  Him  who  shall  deliver  us. 

"  He  is  at  hand  !  The  day  is  close  by.  The  day  is  near 
when  Titus  shall  wake  to  find  himself  confronted  by  a  greater 
than  he,  and  when  the  Jews  shall  rush  to  victory  after  their 
heavenly  Deliverer." 

Cineas  said  no  more.  He  admired  that  faith,  so  mistaken, 
yet  so  strong,  which  thus  clung  to  the  object  of  its  belief  in  the 
midst  of  despair.  He  knew  best  how  false  were  the  hopes  of 
Isaac.  For  the  Deliverer  had  already  come,  as  Cineas  knew, 
and  had  performed  his  work.  The  prophecies  of  Jesus  rang  in 
his  ears,  and  he  knew  well  what  must  be  the  end.  Yet  for  this 
soul,  with  its  errors,  its  hopes,  its  aspirations,  and  its  sublime 
faith,  he  had  sympathy  and  tears. 

His  situation  was  desperate.  His  life  was  saved ;  but  for 
how  long]  He  was  in  a  city  where  people  were  dying  from 
famine  every  day,  where  men  fought  with  one  another  for  food, 
and  starvation  destroyed  far  more  than  the  Roman  sword.  He 
was  in  a  lonely  house,  but  if  he  were  once  discovered  he  would 
perish.  Isaac  himself  knew  not  what  to  do.  It  was  impossible 
to  set  him  free.  The  walls  were  now  so  guarded  that  escape 
without  discovery  was  impossible. 

But  a  means  of  escape  soon  appeared.  The  Romans,  though 
repulsed,  prepared  to  regain  what  they  had  lost.  A  new  attack 
was  made.  The  breach  was  widened,  and  vast  masses  of  met 
poured  through  in  overpowering  numbers.  Slowly,  sternly,  and 
in  perfect  order,  they  marched  through  the  streets,  driving  the 
Jews  before  them,  guarding  against  surprise  by  sending  bodies 
of  men  along  the  house-tops,  and  slaying  all  who  were  in  the 
houses.  Thus  they  made  their  second  attack,  and  occupied 
the  whole  district  called  Akra,  till  at  last  the  Jews  were  driven 
out,  and  took  refuge  in  the  upper  city  of  all,  which  comprised 

(183)  27 


% 

I     !  -SI 

ill- 


1  %k 

\   ■ 


% 


tl 


418 


THE  FALL  OF  'JERUSALEM. 


Zion,  and  Mount  Moriah,  with  the  Temple,  and  the  Tower  of 
Antonia. 

As  the  Romans  penetrated  every  part  of  the  city,  they  passed 
through  that  street  in  which  Cineas  was  confined.  He  rushed 
upon  the  house-top,  as  he  heard  their  cries.  He  saw  the  flash 
of  the  Roman  standards.     He  was  saved. 

But  though  the  Romans  had  thus  taken  Bezetha  and  Akra, 
their  hardest  task  yet  remained.  Mount  Zion  was  almost  im- 
pregnable. The  Temple  was  a  fortress  of  the  strongest  kind ; 
and  the  Tower  of  Antonia  was  strong  enough  of  itself  to  resist 
an  army,  even  if  all  the  rest  were  captured.  This  was  the  work 
that  lay  before  Titus. 

Yet,  before  he  carried  the  siege  to  its  final  extremity,  Titus 
still  offered  mercy.  His  ofilers  were  rejected  with  scorn  by 
the  frenzied  people. 

Many,  indeed,  there  were  who  in  their  wretchedness  longed 
for  nothing  so  much  as  surrender.  They  saw  in  their  own 
leaders  only  the  vilest  of  mankind.  They  saw  no  one  man  of 
probity  and  true  patriotism,  around  whom  they  might  rally. 
What  were  John  and  Simon,  that  they  could  trust  in  them] 
The  emissaries  of  these  men  constantly  went  about  plundering, 
and  murdering,  and  adding  to  the  general  woe.  A  people  who 
were  led  by  such  as  these,  did  not  seem  the  ones  to  whom  a 
Deliverer  would  come.  They  lost  heart  and  courage.  Faith 
died,  and  thousands  thought  that  God  had  forsaken  Israel. 

Crowded  as  they  now  were  into  Zion,  the  Jews  began  to 
suffer  worse  extremities  of  hunger.  Food  could  only  be  pro- 
cured by  stealth,  and  that  which  was  brought  in  was  often 
snatched  up  hurriedly  by  those  who  were  nearest.  Many  tried 
to  escape,  and  so  fled  at  all  hazards  to  the  Romans.  Many  of 
these  were  slain  by  the  Romans,  in  punishment  for  the  former 
perfidy  of  their  countrymen,  yet  numbers  were  saved.  But 
John  and  Simon  in  their  civil  tyranny  sent  round  bodies  of 
men  to  prevent  escape.     These  men  entered  house  after  house, 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


419 


and  wherever  they  found  any  one  who  expressed  desire  to  get 
away,  or  even  discontent,  they  put  him  to  death.  Every  house 
was  at  the  mercy  of  roving  bands.  Some  came  for  plunder, 
but  most  for  food.  Many  a  Uttle  stock  of  provisions,  carefully 
hoarded  up  by  a  father  for  his  family,  was  seized  by  such  mis- 
creants, and  the  family  left  to  die  by  the  worst  of  deaths. 

At  length  Titus  had  his  engines  ready  for  the  attack  on  the 
Tower  of  Antonia.  This  was  a  fortress  of  most  massive  con- 
struction and  commanding  position.  Vast  machines  were 
erected  there,  and  rams  of  enormous  size  were  brought  against 
the  walls.  But  the  Jews  worked  with  equal  zeal.  They  under- 
mined the  ground  beneath  the  engines,  and  filled  it  with  com- 
bustibles, which  they  set  on  fire.  The  fire  burned  away  the 
stays  that  kept  up  the  mined  passages,  and  at  once  the  vast 
engines  fell  into  the  flames  beneath,  which  rushed  up  amid 
the  ruins,  and  enveloping  them  all,  reduced  to  ashes  the  long 
labour  of  ihe  Romans. 

Engines  seemed  useless,  and  something  else  had  to  be 
tried.  Titus  determined  to  surround  the  city  by  famine,  and 
starve  the  people  into  submission.  The  legions  were  posted  in 
detachments  all  around.  Every  man  worked,  and  with  such 
zeal,  that  in  the  incredibly  short  space  of  three  days,  Jerusalem 
was  completely  enclosed  by  a  barrier  over  which  none  might 
pass. 

Then,  indeed,  famine  seemed  inevitable.  Hitherto,  by  infinite 
hazard,  provisions  had  been  brought  from  a  distance,  and  men 
could  cross  in  the  dark;  but  now  that  guarded  Roman  wall 
prevented  all  communication  with  the  outer  world. 

After  the  wall  was  finished,  Titus  went  round  its  whole 
extent,  accompanied  by  many  of  his  oflicers,  among  whom  were 
Cineas  and  Labeo.  As  they  came  to  where  the  deep  Vale  of 
Hinnom  lay  beneath  them,  they  saw  a  scene  which  spoke  more 
loudly  than  words  of  the  horrors  of  the  siege.  Unburied  bodies 
lay  there  by  thousands,  covering  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  and 


I 


420 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


i  ■ 


the  hill-side,  where  they  had  been  carelessly  thrown  by  those 
who  bore  them  out  of  the  city. '  The  taint  of  their  corruption 
filled  the  air.  Titus  shuddered,  and  called  God  to  witness  that 
he  was  not  responsible  for  this. 

Within  the  city  famine  now  came  down  upon  all.  Whole 
families  perished. 

Cineas  could  see  the  signs  of  that  great  agony  as  he  looked 
down  into  the  Vale  of  Hinnom  j  but  within  the  city  Isaac  saw 
and  felt  the  agony  itself. 

Day  after  day  some  tale  of  horror  came  to  his  ears ;  tales 
incredible,  monstrous,  abominable ;  tales  which  he  refused  to 
believe,  till  one  case  occurred  which  made  him  willing  to 
believe  anything,  and  first  sent  the  thought  into  his  mind  that 
God  had  turned  away  his  face  from  Israel  for  ever. 

A  woman,  in  the  madness  of  her  hunger,  killed  her  own  child, 
to  feed  on  its  flesh.  The  famine-stricken  wretches  who  came 
to  her  house  in  search  of  food  discovered  this  hideous  repast, 
and  left  shuddering.     The  city  rang  with  the  frightful  story. 

Isaac  heard  it,  and  found  out  that  it  was  true. 

"  O  God  of  Abraham  ! "  he  murmured,  with  bitterness  in  his 
heart,  "  if  thou  canst  allow  this,  then  what  is  there  that  thou 
wilt  not  allow  to  be  done?" 

The  faith  of  Isaac  faltered  then.  He  looked  toward  the 
Temple,  whose  golden  walls  flashed  in  the  sun  as  brightly  as 
ever. 

"  Dwelling-place  of  the  Most  High  !"  he  murmured ;  "  Holy 
Place  of  Israel !  Since  this  thing  has  been  done  there  is  no 
hope  for  thee.  O  glory  of  Israel !  I  will  not  survive  thee.  I 
will  die  amid  thy  ruins." 

Isaac  fought,  but  it  was  no  longer  the  fight  of  hope.  It  was 
the  fight  of  despair,  in  which  one  who  knows  that  all  is  lost, 
and  that  he  must  die,  seeks  to  sell  his  life  as  dearly  as  possible. 

The  Romans  found  their  engines  of  no  avail  against  the 
Tower  of  Antonia,  and  so  tried  other  measures.    A  small  band 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


421 


ot  daring  men,  out  of  their  own  impulse,  set  forth  one  dark 
night,  and  stealthily  scaled  the  walls,  and  entered  the  tower. 
The  Jewish  guards  were  asleep.  They  were  slain.  The  Roman 
trumpet-peal  announced  both  to  friend  and  foe  that  the  castle 
was  taken.  The  Romans  rushed  forward  by  thousands.  The 
Jews  were  confounded,  and  pan* '-stricken.  The  tower  was 
lost. 

Beside  the  tower  was  the  Temple,  and  a  passage  lay  from 
one  to  the  other.  Over  this  the  Romans  rushed  in  the  first 
flush  of  success,  hoping  to  capture  this  at  the  first  onset.  But 
the  Jews  were  aroused  by  this  time,  and  rushed  in  from  all 
sides  to  defend  the  Holy  Place.  Long  and  fierce  was  the 
conflict.    At  last  the  Romans  were  forced  back. 

Yet  they  had  the  Tower  of  Antonia,  and  this  was  a  great  step 
towards  complete  victory. 

And  now  Titus,  seeing  the  vast  strength  of  the  Temple,  and 
the  difficulty  of  getting  at  it  with  his  machines,  gave  orders  for 
the  demolition  of  the  tower,  that  a  broad  way  might  be  made 
up  to  the  Temple  walls,  where  his  engines  might  be  fixed,  and 
over  which  his  soldiers  might  march  in  sufficient  numbers  to 
overpower  the  Jews.  The  work  was  gigantic,  but  the  labour  of 
Roman  armies  was  always  of  the  most  arduous  character.  They 
worked  with  their  usual  diligence,  and  soon  a  way  was  made  up 
to  the  Temple  walls,  fit  for  their  operations. 

Yet  before  the  final  assault  Titus  paused.  All  through  the 
siege  he  had  been  animated  by  emotions  of  pity  and  mercy. 
He  wished  once  more  to  give  a  chance  of  escape  to  those 
wretched  and  doomed  sufferers.  He  wished  also  to  preserve 
that  glorious  Temple,  which  gleamed  so  radiantly  before  his 
eyes — the  wonder  of  the  world — the  Holy  Place  of  Israel. 

Once  more  he  offered  terms,  but  the  terms  were  rejected. 

On  that  day  a  great  horror  fell  upon  the  Jews. 

It  was  announced  that  the  Daily  Sacrifice  had  failed.  There 
were  no  more  victims. 


11 


433 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


The  Daily  Sacrifice,  offered  through  the  ages,  the  tie  that 
boi'r.d  Israel  to  her  God,  was  over  for  e  /er. 

Isaac  heard  the  news,  but  scarce  felt  surprise.  He  had  pre- 
pared for  the  worst.  A  deeper  gloom  came  over  him.  He 
heard  many,  who  still  clung  to  the  fond  belief  of  ages,  declaring 
that  now,  since  the  sacrifice  had  ceased,  the  Deliverer  must 
come.     He  heard  this,  but  only  smiled  bitterly. 

"  The  Deliverer,"  he  murmured.  "  Ay — yes,  the  Deliverer 
is  near ;  but  the  only  one  for  us  all  now  is  Death." 

The  rams  thundered  against  the  Temple  walls  day  after  day ; 
bi't  against  those  tremendous  stones,  built  in  a  former  age, 
and  looking  like  the  work  of  giants,  nothing  could  be  done. 
The  rams  could  not  shake  the  stones  of  the  old  Jewish 
kings.  t 

Then  they  tried  other  means^  and  kindled  large  fires  against 
the  gates.  The  fire  spread.  The  gates,  massive  as  they  were, 
yielded  to  the  intense  heat.  They  charred,  and  crumbled,  and 
at  last  fell  in. 

Scarce  could  the  Romans  wait  for  the  fires  to  subside,  in  their 
fierce  impatience  to  rush  forward.  They  burst  through,  but 
they  found  the  Jews  there,  standing  firmly,  as  resolute  as  ever, 
endowed  with  new  courage,  since  they  fought  on  that  holy 
ground.  The  fires  spread  amid  the  cloisters,  and  devoured  tlie 
wood-work.  But  amid  the  fires  the  Jews  still  held  their  ground, 
and  at  last  the  Romans  were  compelled  to  fall  back. 

But  the  attack  was  renewed  on  another  day.  The  Romans 
poured  forward  in  ever-increasing  numbers.  The  Jews  at  last 
were  overmastered.     They  retreated  to  the  inner  court. 

Then  came  the  last  day  of  the  fight. 

On  that  day  all  was  to  be  decided.  Titus  had  given  strict 
or'lers  ihat  the  Holy  House  itself  should  not  be  harmed,  and 
that  the  flames  which  they  might  use  in  their  attacks  should  be 
kept  away  from  that  one  place. 

The  morning  of  that  day  came.     It  was  the  tenth  day  of  the 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


423 


of  the 


month  Ab,  the  anniversary  of  the  day  on  which  the  Temple  was 
formerly  burned  by  the  king  of  Babylon.    '  r*'" 

On  that  morning  there  appeared  to  the  excited  senses  of  the 
Jews  that  which  showed  them  that  all  was  lost. 

It  was  early  dawn,  before  the  sun  arose,  while  yet  the  scene 
around  was  dim  in  the  morning  twilight. 

Suddenly  there  arose  a  sound  like  the  rush  of  a  vast  mul- 
titude, mingled  with  the  sound  of  innumerable  voices,  low, 
solemn,  with  infinite  melancholy  and  mournfulness  in  their 
tones, — 

"  Let  us  leave  this  place  ! " 

These  were  the  words  that  were  heard  by  the  Jews,  as,  hag- 
gard and  emaciated  and  despairing,  they  looked  and  listened, — 

"  Let  us  leave  this  place  !" 

And  the  rush  of  this  multitude  grew  mightier,  and  all  the  air, 
and  all  the  holy  hill  seemed  filled  with  their  presence. 

At  last  they  became  manifest  to  sight  as  well  as  hearing. 

On  a  sudden,  in  the  dim  twilight,  there  appeared  innumerable 
phantom  forms,  filling  the  sky,  moving  on  in  long  procession, 
with  heads  bowed  like  mourners,  and  faces  hidden  in  robes, 
and  still  the  cry  wailed  forth  from  all. 

Then  in  shadowy  outline  were  revealed  the  sacred  symbols 
of  those  things  which  were  used  in  the  temple  service, — the 
table  of  shew-bread,  the  golden  candlestick,  and,  more  than  all, 
that  Holy  Ark,  which  once  stood  in  the  ancient  Temple,  over 
whose  mercy-seat  was  the  shado\  of  the  Most  High.  All  these 
were  revealed.  And  the  senses  of  the  Jews,  disordered  by  long 
vigil  and  fasting,  descried  them  as  they  seemed  to  move  through 
the  air. 

At  last  all  faded  away,  and  the  sun  rose  and  illuminated  the 
faces  of  horror  that  stood  gazing  at  the  place  where  the  vision 
had  vanished. 

A  cry  of  despair  escaped  from  all.  They  knew  that  theii 
hour  had  come. 


434 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


The  Romans  rushed  to  the  attack.  All  the  available  strength 
of  the  army  was  brought  forward,  to  make  this  assault  final  and 
irresistible.  Vast  masses  of  men  moved  up  the  slope  and 
poured  into  the  openings  which  the  flames  had  made. 

The  Jews  knew  that  all  was  lost,  but  they  fought  as  they  had 
never  fought  before.  Each  man  wished  to  die,  but  had  deter- 
mined to  make  a  Roman  life  pay  for  his  own. 

Backward  and  still  backward  they  were  borne,  but  still  they 
fought  on.  At  last  the  advancing  Romans  stood  before  the 
Holy  House.  Around  it  the  fight  raged.  The  Jews  wished 
most  of  all  to  die  beside  it. 

Cineas  and  Labeo  were  there,  in  the  midst  of  this  conflict, 
and  marked  the  despair  of  the  Jews,  and  all  their  devotion. 
Suddenly  a  Roman  soldier  seized  a  brand  and  rushed  to  the 
Temple.  He  held  it  up  against  one  of  the  windows.  The 
flames  caught.  They  darted  along  the  wood-work  and  the  rich 
hangings  with  inconceivable  rapidity.  The  light  of  the  con- 
flagration arrested  all. 

A  groan  of  horror  burst  from  the  Jews.  With  one  common 
impulse  they  rushed  to  the  Holy  House. 

The  Romans  themselves  paused  for  a  moment. 

The  flames  shot  up,  enveloping  all,  till  all  one  side  was 
covered.  The  Jews  lifted  up  their  hands  in  despair.  They 
rushed  in  and  out,  some  calling  wildly  on  others  to  save  the 
place. 

At  last  a  sight  appeared  which  arrested  the  attention  of  all. 

Upon  the  roof  stood  a  man,  holding  a  sword  in  his  hand, 
stained  with  the  blood  of  the  battle  and  the  smoke  of  the 
burning  house.  He  stood  for  a  moment  motiorless,  standing 
on  one  side  where  the  fire  had  not  yet  reachea,  and  looking 
upon  the  flames  that  tossed  themselves  up  to  the  skies  from  the 
other. 

Cineas,  as  he  looked  up  from  the  crowd  below,  recognized 
that  face.     It  was  Isaac. 


%   4 


rilE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


425 


For  a  few  moments  Isaac  stood  motionless.  Then  he  walked 
forwrifd  and  threw  his  sword  into  the  flames. 

Then  he  raised  his  clenched  fist  to  the  skies,  and  looking  up, 
cried  out,  in  a  loud  and  piercing  voice, — 

"  O  God  of  Abraham  !  How  hast  thou  mocked  the  people 
who  trusted  in  thee ! " 

The  next  instant  he  rushed  forward  and  sprar  .0  the 
raging  flames. 


: 


■11 


XXXIX. 


€antlmxan. 


I 


! 


LL  was  over ! 

Roman  perseverance  had  triumphed  over  Jewish 
fanaticism.  The  Holy  House  lay  in  ashes.  The 
Roman  triumphed  upon  the  ruins  of  Zion.  The 
Jewish  nation  lost  its  ancient  seat,  and  began  the  long  exile  of 
ages. 

The  Roman  army  occupied  themselves  with  completing  their 
work,  with  gathering  the  wretched  remnants  of  a  people,  and 
sending  them  into  captivity.  The  Jews  who  remained  in  the 
country  were  forced  to  seek  out  hiding-places — to  cower  in  the 
recesses  of  the  mountains — and  wait  till  this  calamity  might  be 
overpast. 

Month  succeeded  to  month. 

Gradually  a  change  took  place.  The  forlorn  and  miserable 
people  began  to  venture  back  to  their  loved  Jerusalem,  and 
rebuild  their  fallen  houses. 

Among  those  who  thus  returned  were  the  Christians,  to  whom 
Jerusalem  was  as  dear  as  to  the  Jews.  They  had  fled  at  the 
first  approach  of  the  storm,  for  they  knew  what  the  end  would 
be.  Now  that  the  end  had  come,  they  sought  once  more  the 
place  which  had  been  so  hallowed  in  their  eyes  by  the  presence 
of  their  Lord. 

Labeo  and  Cineas  looked  upon  Jerusalem  with  feelings  that 
no  other  place  could  excite. 


CONCLUSION. 


427 


Here  once  dwelt  that  wondrous  Being  whom  they  had 
learned  to  regard  as  their  hope,  their  comfort,  and  the  end  of 
all  their  search. 

Here  lay  the  traces  of  his  footsteps ;  the  shadow  of  his  pre- 
sence seemed  to  remain ;  and  the  sound  of  his  words  seemed 
still  to  linger  in  the  air. 

All  around  was  desolation.  The  few  people  that  tried  to 
make  their  home  here  only  increased  the  mournful  aspect  of 
the  place.  The  walls  lay  prostrate.  The  houses  were  in  heaps. 
The  bodies  of  the  dead  had  been  buried ;  but  whenever  Cineas 
looked  down  into  the  deep  valleys  around  Jerusalem,  he 
thought  of  that  scene  which  he  had  once  beheld  when  thousands 
of  corpses  lay  there. 

As  they  looked  around  upon  all  this,  they  recalled  the  words 
of  Christ,  uttered  by  him  as  he  wept  over  Jerusalem. 

Jerusalem  1  well  did  it  need  tears  \  even  the  tears  of  the 
Divine  One. 

So  the  Christians  came  back  to  live  once  more  in  the  presence 
of  their  old  haunts,  and  seek  once  more  those  places  so  dear 
in  their  eyes.  Among  these  Cineas  and  Labeo  found  many 
who  could  give  to  each  spot  its  own  charm,  and  make  the  life 
of  the  Divine  One  come  back  again  before  them  with  all  its 
unutterable  pathos. 

Here  they  saw  the  Mount  of  Olives ;  here  they  saw  Geth- 
semane ;  and  here,  above  all,  they  saw  the  hill — Calvary. 

All  these  things  and  many  more  the  friend;!  saw,  as  they 
wandered  humbly,  reverentially,  and  with  chastened  hearts, 
amid  these  scenes,  listening  to  the  traditions  of  the  meek  Chris- 
tian men,  who  so  lovingly  traced  the  footsteps  of  their  Lord 
about  the  city  which  he  loved,  and  in  which  he  had  died.  In 
the  ruins  of  that  city  they  could  see  something  which  spoke  of 
his  divinity  j  in  the  awful  catastrophe  which  had  occurred  before 
their  eyes,  they  beheld  the  close  of  that  ancient  revelation 
which  was  to  be  succeeded  by  the  new  one.    The  Deliverer 


438 


CONCLUSION. 


whom  the  Jews  expected  had  indeed  come.  He  had  fulfilled 
his  work.  He  had  departed.  But  the  Jews  knew  not  this. 
They  had  blinded  their  eyes,  and  hardened  their  hearts ;  and 
in  their  obstinate  persistency  in  the  expectation  of  material 
glory  for  their  nation,  they  had  flung  themselves  into  an  abyss 
of  woe. 

To  these  two,  as  the  time  passed  by,  it  seemed,  at  length, 
that  of  all  objects  which  could  engage  their  minds,  only  this 
one  thing  was  worthy  of  their  search,  and  that  was  to  find  Him 
for  whom  they  longed  now  with  constant  desire,  to  know  him, 
to  love  him,  to  give  to  him  all  their  affections,  and  all  their 
lives. 

At  length  the  Roman  armies  were  ordered  to  stations  else- 
where, and  Cineas  and  Labeo,  who  thus  far  had  been  forced  to 
remain,  now  found  themselves  at  liberty  to  return  and  follow 
their  own  desires.  And  for  that  they  desired  nothing  more 
than  to  know  Jesus  Christ  and  him  crucified. 

At  Pergamos  they  found  a  teacher  who  could  tell  them  all 
that  they  desired  to  know. 

At  his  feet  they  sat,  content  to  listen  to  him,  and  receive 
from  him  the  story  of  that  Divine  Word,  of  whom  Cineas  had 
once  read  in  the  books  of  the  philosophers,  when  the  name  was 
used  to  express  the  wants  of  man.  Now  they  learned  that  the 
Word  had  become  flesh,  and  man  had  seen  his  glory,  the 
glory  of  the  only  begotten  of  the  Father,  full  of  grace  and 
truth. 

From  this  teacher  they  heard  a  greater  doctrine  and  a 
diviner  teaching  than  any  which  had  ever  been  heard  at 
Athens. 

And  all  was  summed  up  in  the  one  sublime  truth,  "  God 
loves!" 

God  loves !  This  was  the  end  of  all  revelation.  The  all- 
mighty  is  also  the  all-loving.  O  divine  and  infinite  truth !  to 
give  this  to  man  needed  God  himself. 


CONCLUSION. 


439 


Perga.nos  seemed  like  a  holy  place,  as  they  listened  there 
to  the  story  of  Christ — Christ  in  his  acts,  in  his  words, 
in  his  prayers;  Christ  in  his  power  and  his  mercy;  Christ 
in  his  wisdom  ard  his  knowledge;  above  all,  Christ  in  his 
love. 

And  they  learned  that  Christ,  when  he  departed,  left  not  his 
people  comfortless. 

He  had  gone,  but  there  remained  and  should  remain,  through 
all  the  ages,  till  the  end.  One  who  is  the  essence  of  divine  love 
and  pity ;  One  who  in  himself  comprehends  all  the  depths  of 
infinite  compassion ;  whose  mission  is  to  bring  man  to  God ; 
to  open  the  way  to  pardon  and  to  heaven ;  to  speak  peace  to 
the  mourner,  and  make  hope  cast  out  despair :  the  Holy  Spirit, 
the  Comforter. 

There  to  these  men  all  desire  seemed  to  centre.  Content  to 
dwell  here,  they  could  gladly  have  forgotten  all  else,  and  passed 
their  lives  in  holy  meditation. 

But  this  was  not  for  them. 

Other  things  than  quiet  meditation  were  needed.  Their 
duty  was  different. 

That  duty  was,  above  all,  to  follow  Christ ;  and  as  he  sought, 
most  of  all,  to  call  man  to  God  and  holiness,  even  so  ought  all ' 
his  disciples,  each  in  his  own  way. 

And  so  it  was  that  Cineas  and  Labeo  were  impelled  to  carry 
to  other  men  the  truth  which  they  had  learned. 

Cineas  went  to  Athens,  and  there,  in  the  midst  of  stu- 
dents and  teachers  of  philosophy,  he  passed  his  life  in  making 
known  sublimer  doctrines  than  those  of  Plato.  He,  out  of 
his  own  expeiience,  could  best  show  where  philosopy  failed ; 
and  where  Plato  faltered,  he  could  show  that  Christ  was  all- 
sufficient. 

This  became  the  work  of  his  life :  there,  in  the  centre  of 
thought,  the  intellectual  capital  of  the  ancient  world,  to  stand 
forth  among  men  and  proclaim  Christ  crucified.     He  thought, 


-♦30 


CONCLUSION. 


and  rightly  too,  that  aP  his  past  Ufe,  his  varied  feelings,  his 
wide  experience  in  other  forms  of  doctrine,  both  philosophical 
and  Jewish,  his  extensive  observation  of  the  world,  all  pointed 
to  Athens  as  the  proper  place  for  him. 

His  labours  were  not  in  vain.  He  went  abroad  among  all 
classes,  talking,  preaching,  discussing,  exhorting,  till  the  Athe- 
nians gave  him  the  nickname  of  "  The  New  Socrates ; "  but 
Cineas  had  a  model  very  different  from  Socrates,  and  sought  to 
mould  all  his  life  after  the  pattern  of  Jesus. 

He  met  with  much  opposition  and  much  ridicule.  Many 
were  the  sneers  which  he  encountered,  and  for  years  men  did 
not  cease  to  wonder  how  a  Megacleid,  and  a  man  of  genius, 
who  was  familiar  with  all  Grc^k  art  and  literature  and  philo- 
sophy, could  ever  have  brought  his  mind  to  a  belief  in  a 
crucified  Barbarian. 

Yet  all  were  not  scoffers.  Many  there  were  who  had  the 
same  feelings  which  he  once  had.  Among  these  his  mission 
was  successful,  and  he  had  the  joy  of  seeing  many  hearts  re- 
ceive the  consolation  which  Christ  alone  can  bring. 

Labeo  had  a  different  sphere.  He  was  not  adapted  either 
by  nature  or  by  training  to  a  career  among  sneering  sophists 
and  argumentative  philosophers.  He  wished  to  tell  the  simple 
story  of  the  cross  to  simple  men. 

For  what  else  had  he  in  life  than  this  %  The  memory  of  one 
great  sorrow  was  over  him,  and  nothing  that  the  world  could 
offer  had  any  charm.  He  had  found  peace,  and  his  only  desire 
was  to  give  up  his  life  to  the  proclamation  of  the  gospel  of 
peace. 

But  before  he  set  out  to  that  place  which  he  had  chosen  as 
the  ore  where  he  would  pass  the  remainder  of  his  life,  he  paid 
a  final  visit  to  Rome. 

A  letter  had  come  from  Julius,  informing  him  that  his  vene- 
rable mother  was  now  at  the  point  of  death. 

In  her  life  with  Lydia,  and  in  her  association  with  her,  the 


CONCLUSION. 


43* 


aged  Sulpicia  could  not  but  see  much  of  Christianity.  Insen- 
sibly she  felt  her  heart  touched  by  its  simple  doctrines.  Her 
loneliness  afflicted  her,  for  the  sweet  grandchild  whom  she 
loved  was  dead  j  her  idolized  son  was  far  away,  engaged  in 
taking  an  active  part  in  a  dangerous  war;  and  the  sadness 
which  she  felt  made  her  readily  susceptible  to  the  influence 
of  that  religion  which,  above  all  things,  brings  consolation. 
In  her  own  religion  she  found  absolutely  no  comfort  what- 
ever. The  fabled  gods  of  the  national  religion,  for  which 
she  had  a  sort  of  formal  acknowledgment,  were  worse  than 
useless  to  one  like  her.  They  not  only  could  not  attract 
the  mourner,  but  repelled.  In  that  creed,  if  creed  it  may  be 
called,  the  future  was  altogether  dark,  and  as  she  felt  herself 
approaching  the  confines  of  the  other  world,  she  saw  nothing 
but  gloom. 

But  this  religion  of  Christ,  which  Lydia  possessed  and  loved, 
came  to  her  in  that  time  of  darkness,  and  as  she  looked  forward 
she  saw  that  it  illumined  all  the  future.  It  promised  hope  and 
heaven  and  immortality.  It  was  one  which  the  softened  heart 
might  be  loath  to  reject,  and  eager  to  embrace.  From  the 
mouth  of  Lydia,  who  through  all  her  life  had  been  receiving 
the  teachings  of  her  father,  the  story  of  Christ  became  accept- 
able to  Sulpicia,  until  at  last  she  too  believed. 

But  her  great  age  did  not  permit  a  long  stay  on  earth  ;  and 
the  letter  which  Labeo  received  summoned  him  to  her  side. 

All  the  filial  feeling  which  he  had  ever  known,  revived  as 

he  stood  by  the  bedside  of  his  mother ;  but  the  grief  which 

'  he  felt  was  alleviated  as  he  heard  the  words  of  love  and  trust 

in  her  Redeemer  which  Sulpicia  murmured  with  her  latest 

breath. 

The  sweet  influences  which  Lydia  had  exerted  over  Sulpicia 
were  also  felt  by  Carbo.  The  old  man  had  lost  much  of  his 
former  harshness.  He  had  long  since  learned  to  look  on  Chris- 
tianity at  least  with  respect ;  he  at  length  learned  to  regard  it 


\  I  fl 


1,  I 


*l. 


432 


CONCLUSION. 


with  love.  It  became  his  delight,  and  the  object  of  his  life,  to 
accompany  his  son  in  his  labours  for  the  benefit  of  the  Christian 
community. 

The  death  of  his  mother  loosened  the  last  tie  which  bound 
Labeo  to  Rome.  He  saw  that  Julius  was  eminent  among  the 
Christians  for  acts  of  general  service,  and  determined  to  make 
this  benefit  permanent.  He  therefore  gave  to  Julius  his  villa 
and  estates,  and  when  Julius  refused  to  take  them  he  insisted 
on  it,  telling  him  that  it  was  not  to  him  that  he  gave  it,  but  to 
Christ.  Then  Julius  could  no  longer  refuse.  I'hat  estate 
became  his,  but  all  that  it  yielded  was  at  the  service  of  the 
Christians,  to  supply  their  wants,  or  to  help  along  their  en- 
terprises. 

All  Labeo's  heart  was  fixed  on  one  place,  and  that  was — 
Britain. 

There  lay  his  wife,  and  there  his  boy,  still  loved  with  un- 
diminished fondness — still  longed  for.  In  the  land  where 
those  loved  remains  were  deposited  he  determined  to  pass  his 
days. 

When  he  came  to  the  well-known  place,  and  stood  once  more 
in  front  of  the  tomb,  and  read,  through  his  tears,  the  epitaphs 
over  those  idols  of  his  heart,  a  terrible  shock  came  to  him. 
His  feelings  overmastered  him.  He  fell  on  his  knees  and 
groaned  in  his  agony.  Despair  seemed  once  more  to  take 
possession  of  him.  He  had  miscalculated  his  strength.  He 
knew  not  how  a  return  to  the  scene  of  an  old  sorrow  can  bring 
back  that  sorrow  in  all  its  freshness. 

But  as  he  knelt  there,  with  clenched  hands,  bloodshot  eyes, 
and  heaving  breast,  with  all  his  thoughts  filled  with  that  agony 
of  former  years,  other  things  gradually  came  to  his  mind,  to 
soothe  and  to  console.  Amid  the  visions  of  the  past  new  ones 
came.  His  wife  and  child,  in  his  excited  fancy,  stood  beside 
him,  but  between  the  two  he  saw  the  form  of  a  Third,  a  form 
on  which  were  the  marks  of  cruel  scars,  but  with  a  face  of  in- 


CONCLUSION. 


433 


finite  love,  that  looked  towards  him,  and  by  its  looks  spake — 
peace. 

And  again  that  voice  of  his  son  sounded,  as  it  had  sounded 
so  often  before,  a  sweet  childish  voice,  with  tones  of  love  un- 
utterable, that  said, — 

"  Father,  we  will  meet  again  ! " 

Then  a  great  joy  came  to  Labeo,  and  all  his  despair  vanished, 
and  there,  even  in  the  presence  of  the  tomb  of  his  son,  he  felt 
within  him  perfect  peace. 

Throughout  Britain  his  face  and  form  and  voice  became  well 
known,  among  Romans,  among  friendly  tribes,  and  among 
hostile  ones.  Much  he  suffered.  Often  he  was  sorely  wounded, 
sometimes  death  seemed  inevitable;  yet  still  he  pursued  his 
course,  and  tried  to  tell  all,  both  Roman  and  Barbarian,  the 
scory  of  love.     So  the  years  passed. 

In  that  land  of  Britain  there  was  another  of  whom  Labeo 
often  thought,  and  whom  he  longed  to  meet  with. 

This  was  Galdus. 

The  Briton,  after  leaving  Labeo,  had  left  all  the  Roman 
world  behind.  He  turned  his  head  upon  all  this,  and  went 
northward  toward  those  tribes  that  were  yet  free.  He  passed 
through  tribe  after  tribe,  and  finding  many  of  them  under 
Roman  influence,  he  still  pursued  his  way. 

At  last  he  came  among  the  tribes  of  Caledonia. 

Grief  drove  him  to  seek  comfort  in  action.     From  the  quiet 

life  of  years  in  civilization  and  amid  refinement,  he  now  felt  a 

reaction.     At  the  stimulus  of  grief,  all  his  barbaric  nature  was 

aroused,  and  the  thought  of  war  came  to  him  as  it  had  come  to 

Ciueas  and  Labeo.     His  valour,  his  strength  and  courage,  his 

skill  in  fighting,  which  had  been  doubly  formed,  first  by  a  long 

use  of  native  weapons,  and  secondly  by  his  training  as  a 

gladiator,  all  these  made  him  conspicuous  as  a  warrior,  and  the 

tribe  among  whom  he  cast  his  lot  chose  him  as  their  chief 

His  mind,  naturally  acute,  had  been  enlarged  and  strengthened 

28 


\\ 


* 

i 


434 


CONCLUSIOtr. 


by  civilized  life  and  association  with  men  of  intelligence.  He 
had  also  seen  the  world.  Sorrow  had  made  him  grave  and 
calm.  He  was  fit  to  rule.  His  influence  was  felt  far  and 
near.  In  disputes  between  tribes  his  decision  was  called  for, 
until  at  length  many  of  them  chose  him  voluntarily  for  their 
leader. 

A  great,  idea  took  possession  of  his  mind,  and  that  was  a 
combination  of  all  the  tribes,  to  resist  Roman  conquest  and 
drive  Roman  armies  out  of  Britain.  It  animated  his  life.  He 
went  out  among  the  people,  firing  their  hearts,  reminding  them 
of  the  wrongs  of  Boadicea,  enumerating  the  crimes  of  the 
Romans,  and  exhorting  all  to  union.  His  words  sank  deeply 
into  the  hearts  of  the  natives,  and  all  became  animated  with 
his  own  spirit.  He  became  the  recognized  leader  of  all.  The 
natives  called  him  ^^  Gald  cachach"  "  Gald^  the  fighter  of  battles ^^ 
The  Romans  heard  of  his  fame,  and,  in  their  own  language, 
called  him  Galgacus. 

This  name  was  bestowed  on  account  of  the  success  of  his 
earliest  efforts  against  the  Romans.  For  now  an  attempt  was 
being  made  to  complete  the  conquest  of  Britain,  and  Agricola 
was  then  cautiously  leading  his  legions  against  an  enemy  with 
whose  tactics  he  was  well  acquainted.  He  found  out  that 
Galdus  was  making  a  confederacy,  and  resolved  himself  to 
strike  the  first  blow.  He  sent  a  fleet  to  explore  those  inland 
waters  which  were  called  Clota  and  Bodotria.  The  Cale- 
donians seeing  the  fleet,  took  alarm,  and  at  once  began 
war. 

Under  the  lead  of  Galdus  many  advantages  were  obtained. 
Once,  in  a  night  attack,  they  met  with  such  success  that  the 
Roman  army  was  only  saved  with  extreme  difficulty. 

At  last  the  two  armies  met  near  the  Grampian  Hills,  and 
there  the  decisive  battle  was  fought.  Galdus  harangued  his 
men  with  all  that  fiery  eloquence  which  so  distinguished  him  in 
a  speech  which  is  preserved  in  the  pages  of  Tacitus,  and  stands 


CONCLUSION. 


435 


there  as  the  most  noble  vindication  of  freedom  and  patriotism 
that  the  records  of  man  have  preserved. 

The  great  fight  was  fought ;  and  the  world  knows  the  result 
Patriotism,  valour,  fury,  despair,  all  proved  of  no  avail  against 
discipline  and  strategic  skill.  The  army  of  the  Caledonin 
confederacy  was  destroyed.  The  tribes  retired  sullenly  still 
further  to  the  north,  to  wait  there  for  a  later  age  when  they 
might  once  more  assail  the  Romans. 

Galgacus  vanished  from  the  scene.  Gald,  the  fighter  of 
battles,  roused  the  tribes  no  more. 

He  saw  the  ruin  of  his  hopes  and  the  destruction  of  his 
plans.  The  desires  that  had  animated  him  died  out.  What 
remained] 

Grief  that  arose  out  of  that  strong  affection  of  his,  which 
through  the  years  had  still  carried  the  memory  of  that  sweet 
boy  whom  he  once  regarded  as  a  god,  whose  words  were  well 
remembered,  whose  form  revisited  his  dreams.  Still,  amid 
excitement  and  battle,  that  face  appeared,  full  of  tender,  childish 
pity,  as  it  had  once  appeared  in  the  cruel  amphitheatre,  when 
it  came  before  his  fainting  senses,  and  tender  hands  were  felt, 
and  words  of  love  were  heard. 

All  this  remained  fixed  in  his  memory. 

Vengeance,  war,  ambition,  all  were  gone ;  love  remained — 
such  love  as  belongs  to  a  strong,  proud,  fierce  nature — love 
mighty,  twrdying.  Had  he  not  nursed  that  love  for  years,  as  he 
carried  that  boy  in  his  arms,  and  forgot  his  country  and  his  kin 
in  his  love  for  him  1 

It  was  about  a  year  after  the  Grampian  fight,  when  Labeo, 
who  had  gone  further  north  than  ever  before,  returned,  as  was 
his  custom,  to  fast  and  pray  at  the  grave  of  his  son.  As  he 
came  there  he  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  on  the  stone  pavement 
before  the  tomb.  The  man  was  motionless.  Labeo  looked  on 
long  in  silence,  wondering. 

At  last  he  went  up  and  touched  the  man  who  lay  there, 


I 


?^:. 


436 


CONCLUSION. 


The  other  turned  his  head  half  round,  and  looked  up  fiercely 
and  wildly. 

The  face  that  was  revealed  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  that  was 
then  shining,  was  pallid  and  haggard  in  the  extreme.  A  shaggy 
beard  and  moustache  covered  the  lower  part,  and  matted  hair 
fell  over  the  brow.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  Labeo  knew  it  at 
once.  He  knew  it  by  the  sorrow  that  it  bore.  Who  else  could 
mourn  at  the  grave  of  his  son,  except  one  1 

Labeo  flung  himself  on  his  knees  beside  him  and  embraced 
him. 

"  Galdus !"  he  cried.  "  Friend,  brother,  saviour  of  him  whom 
we  both  once  loved.  Heaven  has  brought  us  together.  We  must 
part  no  more." 

At  these  words,  spoken  with  a  trembling  voice,  and  with  deep 
emotion,  the  Briton  rose  and  looked  at  Labeo  with  a  bewildered 
stare. 

"  Do  you  not  know  the  father  of  Marcus?"  said  Labeo. 

Galdus  flung  his  arms  around  Labeo.  His  whole  frame 
shook. 

"  He  sent  you,"  he  murmured  at  last.  "  He  of  whom  Marcus 
used  io  speak.  I  have  knelt  here  many  nights,  and  I  have 
tried  to  remember  what  I  used  to  hear  about  him.  He  took 
away  my  boy — my  god.  I  never  understood  about  him.  I 
am  only  a  Barbarian.  Did  he  do  this?  Did  he  send  you 
here?" 

"  He  did,  he  did,"  cried  Labeo,  as  tears  came  to  his  eyes. 
"  It  is  he,  and  no  other." 

"  My  friend  and  my  brother,"  said  Galdus,  '*  I  will  never 
leave  you.  I  have  found  you,  and  if  you  will  let  me  stay  near 
you,  I  will  give  you  my  love  and  my  life.  I  wish  to  hear  about 
him  whom  Marcus  loved.  He  must  be  like  Marcus,  and  he 
may  be  willing  to  let  me  see  my  boy  in  that  bright  world  where 
Marcus  said  he  was  going.  Can  you  tell  me  of  him  ?  Or  can 
you  tell  me  what  Marcus  meant  ?    I  know  all  the  words  that 


CONCLUSION. 


437 


he  used  to  speak ;  but  I  am  only  a  Barbarian,  and  I  cannot 
understand  them.  You  can  tell  me,  and  I  will  repeat  one  by 
one  the  words  that  I  used  to  hear,  so  that  I  can  understand 
them." 

"  Come,"  said  Labeo.  "  We  will  never  part  again.  I  will 
tell  you  about  him,  and  he  who  brought  us  together  here  will 
make  you  understand." 


Time  went  on,  and  the  Briton  heard  from  Labeo  the  story 
of  the  One  whom  Marcus  loved.  Slowly  there  dawned  on  his 
mind  the  light  of  that  truth  which  can  be  as  manifest  to  the 
humblest  as  to  the  wisest,  since  the  meaning  of  it  all  is 
love. 

The  Briton,  in  whom  love  was  so  strong,  could  feel  better 
than  many  of  colder  natures  the  full  power  of  love  divine  when 
once  the  idea  had  come  to  his  mind.  There  was  yet  love  for 
him  in  return  for  his  own — a  love  larger  and  more  profound 
than  that  which  he  had  lost.  The  idea  came  at  first  dimly,  but 
it  came  \  and  what  he  gained  he  retained,  and  it  grew  within 
him  until  at  last  it  became  strong — a  radiant  light,  enlightening 
all  his  life. 

He  clung  to  Labeo.  In  his  wanderings,  his  discourses,  his 
perils,  his  dangers,  Labeo  had  this  faithful  heart,  with  all  its 
sympathy,  bound  to  his  by  a  double  tie, — love  for  the  same  lost 
one,  and  for  the  same  Redeemer.  He  learned  at  last  to  do 
something  more  than  sympathize.  He  could  speak  to  his  fel- 
lows in  his  own  rough,  rude  way,  of  a  truth,  and  a  heaven,  and 
a  God,  which  the  Druid  had  never  known,  and  the  follower  of 
the  Druid  had  never  hoped  for. 

Thus,  together,  these  men  shared  joy  and  sorrow,  and  peril  and 
toil,  carrying  to  Roman  and  to  Barbarian  the  truth  which  they 
had  learned ;  labouring  through  the  years  as  they  passed  till 
labour  ended,  and  rest  came. 

Galdus  found  that  rest  first 


r 


438 


CONCLUSION. 


While  preparing  his  body  for  the  grave,  Labeo  found  around 
his  neck  a  golden  ball  suspended.  It  had  once  belonged  to 
Marcus,  who  had  worn  it  as  all  Roman  boys  did.  Galdus  had 
taken  this  and  had  worn  it  next  his  heart  through  all  those 
years. 

Labeo  hung  it  round  his  own  neck,  and  wore  the  dear  relic 
of  his  boy  till  he  joined  him  on  high.         5»v 


